Breaching Walls
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: A boy's death makes Gibbs re-evaluate everything he thinks he knows about his senior agent.  But one thing is certain: Nothing is ever all that it seems.  Warnings for language and some minor spoilers through season two.  ENJOY!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **More multi-chapter fun! I'll apologize in advance because regular updates will not be happening this time around—my real life is just too much of a rollercoaster to make that promise. Thanks, as always, to Detour for her continuing support, her amazing sense of humor (as evidenced by her latest: a side-splitting crack!fic) and the selfless lending of her all-around brilliance (in all things fiction and far, far beyond!). As for the story? Well, I hope you all enjoy! Requisite disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

The boy was all of twelve years old.

Sadly, he would never see thirteen.

He would never sneak out on a Friday night because he just couldn't wait until Monday to see his pretty new girlfriend. He would never catch the winning touchdown pass at the state finals or sink a beautiful three-pointer just seconds before the buzzer. He would never be handed a diploma from a well-known university, knowing that piece of paper represented four years of blood, sweat, tears, and an unbending will.

Tony knew these things as he walked around the boy's body, brains blown across once-white carpet after one quick tug on the trigger of his father's service weapon—and a lifetime of pain.

He also knew the boy would never be sent to military school, packing his things with silent, angry tears running down his young face because, goddammit, he just didn't _understand. _He would never lie on a football field, clutching a ruined knee and realizing all of his dreams were castles childishly built in the shifting sands. He would never search the unfamiliar faces of his classmates' families for his own father, knowing it was futile.

_Or maybe he had_, Tony thought as he snapped another photo, surreptitiously watching the Marine stare at his son's corpse. The man's demeanor dared any one of the agents to insist he leave, but that simmering anger was the only emotion DiNozzo could read on his face. The Marine was obviously no stranger to violence, but Tony expected the _father_ to have some sort of reaction to his son's violent death. But the man simply turned and walked from the room, shaking his head as though disappointed.

Tony was glad for the years of experience that were allowing him to step outside himself with calm detachment and simply do the job. He watched Ducky eyeing him, as the doctor had been eyeing him since they first walked in and saw the boy, who had stripped himself to the waist to display the evidence on his skin of a brutal beating. _More than one beating_, Tony thought, crouching down to snap a photo of a patch of faded bruising amid the fresher ones.

Tony wondered what it meant that his first thought had been "Attaboy." His second had been, "But I wish you had found a better way to say 'fuck you'." He stopped thinking entirely when Ducky approached him and laid a gentle, concerned hand on his arm. Only then did Tony realize just how badly he was shaking.

_Gibbs'll kill me if these photos don't turn out_, he thought, trying to ignore the doctor's probing gaze.

"How are you feeling, Anthony?" he asked, drawing the eyes of Kate and McGee—and unfortunately, Gibbs, too.

Tony didn't answer right away.

"A lot like him," he finally said, his voice low but entirely blank as he nodded to the boy's corpse.

He could practically see the thoughts swimming through Ducky's eyes as the doctor struggled to come up with a reply to that.

_Broken, hurting, sad, damaged…_

_Hopeless?_

Tony decided to let him off the hook.

"I'm not feeling a thing, Doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

Gibbs watched his agent turn and walk calmly from the room, and he was feeling just as shocked as the rest of the team—but his was the only face not showing it.

"Kate, McGee," he called out, watching their heads snap toward him and noting that Ducky's did, too. "Finish processing the room. DiNozzo and I are going to talk to the Staff Sergeant."

Kate blinked in obvious disbelief. "Gibbs," she said, an odd little smile on her face as she tried to figure out when Gibbs had starting kidding around with them. The look on his face quickly ruled that out, and she asked, "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"You wanna tell me why you think it isn't?" Gibbs returned shortly, his eyes already out the door of the boy's bedroom as he moved steadily toward it. He tossed his words back to the silence. "Didn't think so."

* * *

Kate stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. There were days when she wondered why she put up with the cowing, the rare explanations too cryptic and open to interpretation to be considered any answer at all. Kate was a black-and-white kind of person; Gibbs was a tangled enigma as grey as the hairs on his head.

She looked at McGee, who was still wide-eyed and staring after Gibbs.

"Let's go, McGee," she ordered, watching him jump a little. "Scene isn't going to process itself."

They continued moving around the room, neither speaking until Ducky and Palmer packed up the boy's body and left them alone with only the bloodstain as a reminder of the young man's short life—or rather, his brutal death.

Kate stopped scanning through the boy's school planner and looked up at McGee, unsurprised to find the junior agent swallowing nervously as he stared at her. "What, McGee?" she asked, trying not to sound annoyed that she was stuck reading about Brian Landry's third-period science homework while DiNozzo got to question the father. _She_ was the profiler, and it was clear that Brian hadn't beaten himself.

"Uh, I was just wondering," McGee said, his eyes flicking up from the bloodied carpet.

"Wondering what, McGee?"

"Um, what just happened?"

Kate smiled and set the planner aside. "You mean why DiNozzo gets to talk to the father while we toil away up here?" She didn't stop to let him answer. "Especially when Tony is probably the last person who should be talking to that man?"

McGee just looked more confused. "Why do say that?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, Tim?" she asked, incredulous.

"DiNozzo's the senior field agent," McGee said, as if that answered all of Kate's questions.

"He's also a man who is identifying strongly with the victim," Kate said, watching McGee's eyes get even wider. Expecting a protest, she continued, "Abused child with an absentee father who barely reacted to his son's suicide—"

"Wait," McGee said, shaking his head. "Maybe he's just in shock. How do you know he's an absentee father?"

Kate smiled a shark's smile. "I'm a profiler, McGee. Look around. Movie posters on the walls are almost all military films that Brian probably watched as substitutes for talking with his dad about the man's real-life experiences. The sheer volume of DVDs over there mean the boy spends a lot of time alone up here—because they would be in the entertainment center downstairs if they watched them together. He has notes in his school planner about a parent-teacher conference that has been rescheduled three times."

McGee was nodding slowly, and Kate figured he was taking notes in his head.

"And you think Tony's dad was just as bad?"

"His dad left him in a hotel in Hawaii like Tony was a cheap piece of luggage," she answered, keeping her voice carefully blank. "And even if I didn't know that, there are plenty of other clues."

McGee looked like he was about to demand a list, and Kate was feeling suddenly a little guilty over talking about their teammate like this.

So all she said was, "It's as obvious to me that Tony had an unhappy childhood as it is that you have a good relationship with your family."

But McGee wasn't ready to let it drop. He snapped off a few photos that Kate doubted would be in focus.

"What?" she asked, sorry that she had brought it up.

"Why would you say he was abused?" McGee asked quietly.

Kate sighed. "You saw the bruises on the boy," she said, hoping McGee would take the hint.

He didn't. "I meant Tony. He would never say anything about that even if he…"

"Do I need to explain to you what a profiler does, Agent McGee?" Kate asked, knowing her anger was slightly misplaced. Still, she hiked up her chin and continued, "You take clues from everything the subject says—and everything they _don't _say. Remember when we were talking about our favorite Christmas memories the other day?"

"Yeah, Tony was bragging about the haul of toys he got one year."

"Right," Kate said, nodding. "He described everything in nauseating detail. But you talked about how your dad took you out to learn to ride the new bike he got you. And I told the story of my brothers all chipping in for my first car. Ducky went on and on about his family's tradition with the Christmas pudding."

"Abby told us about the vintage funeral gown her brother got her," McGee said, understanding. "Tony talked about the gifts, but never about who gave them to him. Nothing about his family."

Kate's eyes went sad and she hoped McGee would be distracted from his original question.

But he asked, "So his family wasn't always around. That doesn't mean he was abused."

"Some would say neglect _is_ abuse," Kate said. She saw the look and continued, "Profiling is also about extrapolating from the tiny details. Tony slipped when he said he couldn't believe when his nanny opened the toy Magnum Ferrari. Why would his nanny be opening it?"

McGee lifted a shoulder, wondering what was going on downstairs. "He said he had so much stuff that he needed help opening it all."

Kate rolled her eyes, but she decided to cut the probie some slack. "Since when does a kid ever let an adult help him open presents, Tim? Why would _Tony_ need help tearing through pile of presents?"

McGee's face fell as he realized the obvious answer. "Because he couldn't do it himself," he said softly.

"And as much as profiling is about what the subject says," Kate continued before McGee could think too much about how badly a child had to be hurt to sit out Christmas, "it's also about what people who know the subject well say about him or her. Gibbs was a bear the rest of that day after walking in on that conversation."

"He knew?"

"Probably," Kate said, shaking her head and surveying the room. A piece of paper under the bed caught her eye. She got down on all fours to pull it out and found that it was a half-finished homework assignment. She closed her eyes for a moment. "Ducky knows, too. I wasn't sure before, but he proved it today."

McGee blew out a frustrated breath, wondering if they had been at the same crime scene—if they were talking about the same Tony. He thought back to the odd exchange that had led to Tony walking out. "Ducky asked if he was okay. Tony's been a cop for a long time. He's seen plenty of tragedies."

"True, but not true, McGee," Kate said, deciding there was nothing else under the bed of interest and climbing to her feet. "DiNozzo has seen plenty of bad scenes, but Ducky didn't ask him if he was okay. He asked, 'How are you feeling?' As if he already knew the answer. It's telling that he didn't even ask Tony what was wrong or why this particular scene was bothering him, which is what most people would do."

McGee was nodding, taking that in and trying to reconfigure his every last impression of Anthony DiNozzo. "You're really smart, Kate," he said shyly.

Kate smiled, but it faded as she checked her watch. "Not really. Gibbs will murder us both if we don't hurry up and finish this scene."


	3. Chapter 3

Gibbs wasn't thinking about the speed of his agents upstairs. He was watching Tony stalk into the room containing the Marine who had likely beaten his own son. He followed, knowing there was no discreet way to toss DiNozzo from the room, so he simply stepped neatly in front of him and settled into the chair opposite Staff Sergeant Kenneth Landry. DiNozzo had no choice but to move to the couch across the room—or stand on Landry's face, as it appeared he wanted to.

Gibbs' look more than conveyed his choice of seating arrangements, and DiNozzo dropped gracefully onto the sofa despite the murderous look in his eyes that seemed so at odds with the flowery décor.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Staff Sergeant," DiNozzo said, leaning forward slightly. "I can't even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you."

Gibbs almost did a double-take, both at the words and the unmistakable compassion in them. He was torn between being immensely proud and wholly unnerved by the impeccably faked sincerity.

Landry didn't respond with anything more than a faraway nod, and Gibbs saw Tony's mouth tighten almost imperceptibly.

But DiNozzo just continued, "We don't have to do this now if you're not ready."

Landry brightened at that.

Until DiNozzo continued. "You could come down to NCIS and give your statement there."

The Marine bristled, his expression going dark. Gibbs saw it—and saw that DiNozzo wasn't surprised by it in the least. "Or we could come back," Gibbs said, shooting a warning glare at his agent.

"Can we just be done with this? I don't know how long it could possibly take," Landry said, his eyes flicking toward the ceiling and then returning to his clasped hands. "I mean, it's pretty obvious what happened."

"Did Brian give any indication that he might be considering suicide?" DiNozzo asked, watching Landry's eyes even though the man wasn't looking at him.

Those eyes squeezed tightly shut and Landry showed his first hint of real emotion when he asked, "Don't you think I'd have done something if he had?"

DiNozzo just lifted a shoulder. "We make it a point not to assume things during an investigation."

Landry's eyes flashed angrily, but Gibbs cut in, sending an acid glare at his subordinate. "What Agent DiNozzo meant to ask was how has Brian's attitude been lately? Any problems at school?"

Landry shook his head slowly, squinting in concentration, and Gibbs saw the muscle ticking in Tony's jaw and could practically hear his recriminating thoughts.

"Brian has always been a model child. Perfect, really. He's never had any disciplinary problems. Not even when my wife died last year," Landry said, his voice breaking on the dead woman's name. His gaze went to a framed photo on the mantel, their wedding photo. "She was so beautiful. Eyes like a summer afternoon. Brian's are the exact same."

Tony looked for a photo to confirm that, but there were no pictures of the boy in the room.

Gibbs stood, and the others followed suit.

DiNozzo apparently wasn't done, though, because he posed another question: "Is there anyone else who might be able to speak to Brian's mental state? Maybe someone who spent more time with him?"

It was also apparently the wrong question, because Landry's eyes lit up like fireworks and he threw himself at DiNozzo, who raised his hands defensively and stepped backward. Tony was angry and disgusted with the man's treatment of his son, but he wasn't going to hit a father who had just lost a child.

Gibbs was obviously thinking the same thing since he went immediately for his agent—and not the Marine hell-bent on decking him. Gibbs stepped between the two men, turning his back to Landry while grabbing DiNozzo's left wrist and shoving the agent away. They may have been on the same page, but Tony hadn't expected to find himself suddenly being manhandled by his furious boss so he reacted instead of thinking and struggled in Gibbs' fierce grip.

Gibbs, misreading the struggle as DiNozzo wanting to pound the crap out of Landry, forced Tony against the wall and grabbed his right wrist, shoving his hand up between his shoulder blades until the agent stopped squirming.

"Boss," Tony gasped, not sure why Gibbs was still pinning him to the wall—until he realized Landry was still pissed and hovering off to their right.

"Hey!" Gibbs barked, turning toward Landry and inadvertently forcing Tony's hand slightly higher. He winced at the soft pop of the distressed joint and felt Tony's sharp intake of breath like a punch in the gut. He released the agent immediately but turned on Landry, holding his hands up and making the Marine back away as he advanced. "Calm down," he ordered firmly, trying to take his own advice even though Tony's pained panting was echoing in his ears, loud as gunfire.

"Get out of my home," Landry said, looking like he would rip DiNozzo in half if Gibbs weren't still standing between them.

Gibbs nodded, taking Tony by the left arm and steering him toward the door, keeping himself between the two. "My agents should be done upstairs soon. We'll be outside."

Landry didn't respond. He just glanced at the door again, his hands still clenched into fists at his sides.

Gibbs followed Tony through the door and watched the agent move to sit on the back of the truck, watched him hook a boot heel on the bumper so he could discreetly prop up his injured arm on a bent knee. Gibbs swore under his breath, hoping like hell he hadn't really hurt him.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

If Tony was surprised by the quiet explosion—or the question—he didn't show it. He simply gave a one-sided shrug and said, "Sorry I didn't feel like coddling the bastard."

Gibbs' brilliant blue eyes locked onto Tony's green ones. "That 'bastard' just lost a child, DiNozzo. Cut the man some slack."

"Yeah, you're probably right," DiNozzo said, nodding agreeably. "Poor guy will probably have to cancel his golf game this weekend and go to his son's funeral instead. Damned shame."

"It is a damned shame," Gibbs said, his voice rising as he planted himself in front of DiNozzo. "The kid just blew his brains out."

Gibbs found real sadness in Tony's eyes. "I'm not debating that," he said quietly, looking at the ground.

"You just don't think Landry's reacting enough?" Gibbs said, waiting until Tony looked up. He continued more quietly, "The man's probably in shock. He kept referring to Brian in the present tense."

Tony's gaze slid to the house again. "I know. I heard."

"Then what the hell is wrong with you?" Gibbs asked again, less loudly this time—with decidedly less fury even though he was watching Tony's hand creeping up toward his injured shoulder.

DiNozzo's eyes snapped back to his boss. "Are you serious? Really, Gibbs?" You saw the bruises on Brian's body. His father beat the crap out of him. Regularly," he said, seething again.

"What happened to not making assumptions during an investigation?" Gibbs asked, throwing Tony's taunting words back at him.

DiNozzo surprised Gibbs by smiling appreciatively. "And here I didn't think you ever listened to me."

"Oh, I listen," Gibbs shot back, pausing and meeting Tony's eyes. "I even listen to the things you don't say, Tony."

DiNozzo drew a wary breath. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, unused to a Gibbs who didn't just say exactly what he was thinking.

Gibbs was silent for a moment, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. But it needed to be said, and no one was going to do it but him. "He's not your father, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his voice low. "We don't know that Landry beat the kid."

Tony's jaw dropped, and Gibbs watched the anguish in his eyes flip back to the simmering anger that had been there all day. Gibbs also noted that when Tony popped to his feet, his left hand went immediately to support his right elbow.

Gibbs held up his hands to ward off the explosion, his gentle tone stopping DiNozzo's fury in its tracks. "How bad did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," DiNozzo said automatically.

His hand dropped from his arm at Gibbs' pointed look, and the lead agent winced at the pain that flashed through the green eyes skittering away from his.

"Really, Gibbs," DiNozzo said, meeting his boss's eyes with a sudden, odd little smile. He lifted his injured shoulder without blinking. "It's not like I haven't been knocked around before, right?"


	4. Chapter 4

McGee stepped out of the house just in time to see Gibbs climb into the driver's seat of the truck and slam the door shut.

DiNozzo pushed off from where he was leaning against the bumper. "You see Landry on your way out, Probie?"

McGee shook his head. "I think he was in the basement."

Tony smiled and McGee was glad to see that his partner seemed to have shaken off his earlier dark mood. "Wonder if all Marines have boats down there," Tony said.

The junior agent smiled back. "Maybe." His grin faded, though, when he saw Tony eyeing the house as Kate brushed past to get into the truck with Gibbs. "You okay?" McGee asked once she was inside.

"Huh?" Tony shook his head. "I was just wondering if you locked up. Landry's pretty out of it, and I doubt the poor guy needs to add a break-in to his troubles."

"No," McGee answered, glancing back at the house and then down the tree-lined street. "Seems like a safe enough neighborhood."

DiNozzo grinned. "This ain't base housing at Quantico, Probie. Better safe than sorry."

McGee nodded. "I have the alarm code Landry gave us to get in. I'll go set it."

"I'll do it. What is it?" DiNozzo asked, already moving toward the house. "You better get going. Gibbs was already grumbling about how long you and Kate took upstairs."

The probie rattled off the security code and headed for the truck, torn between hoping Gibbs would give him the silent treatment and hoping Gibbs would just yell at him already. McGee really wasn't sure which was worse: the headslaps Tony got on a regular basis or the silent recrimination Gibbs was just as good at delivering.

Whichever it would be, McGee was certain of one thing.

It was going to be a long ride back.

* * *

Kate may have been a profiler, but she had no idea why the ride back was silent and fraught with tension so thick it was a wonder they didn't all suffocate in the tight confines of the truck. Gibbs' jaw was clenched so tightly that Kate wanted to offer him a piece of gum so he didn't break a tooth. And she couldn't figure out why Tony was uncharacteristically silent, his face slightly pale as he stared stone-faced out at the bright fall day.

She breathed a huge sigh of relief as they pulled into the garage, noting with a smile that McGee didn't scramble out of the back of the truck until Gibbs had slammed a hand against the elevator button. The second Gibbs stalked into the car, Kate stepped into Tony's path, ignoring the rare combination of anger and annoyance she saw in his eyes.

"What's going on, DiNozzo?" she asked, dodging quickly to the left when he tried to sidestep her. "I was waiting for you or Gibbs to pull your weapons."

"He seemed really mad," McGee added unnecessarily—but Kate was slightly surprised he spoke up at all so she let it go.

But Tony didn't. "Ya think, Probie?"

Kate smiled even though she was a bit unsettled by the lingering darkness in her partner's gaze. "First you get pissy like him," she said, having trouble keeping up the smile under his glare—and wondering how he managed it under Gibbs' frequent glares. But she soldiered on. "Now you're sounding like him, too. What's going on?"

"I'm not pissy," Tony grumbled, sounding pissy.

Kate just crossed her arms and stayed planted in his way. The probie, to his credit, inched closer, blocking DiNozzo's path. Kate noted that it looked like McGee might bolt at any sudden movement from Tony, who was as tense as she had ever seen him.

But then DiNozzo turned away with a sigh. Kate thought she caught a hint of a wince as he ran a hand through his hair—a very un-Tony-like gesture, considering his loving care of his locks.

"Come on, Tony. We're partners," Kate said, seeing his distress and feeling slightly guilty for appealing to his deeply ingrained cop loyalties. It was obvious he didn't want to talk about it—because he would be talking, otherwise.

"Gibbs…" Tony started, moving to sit on the bumper of the truck. He trailed off and stared at a grease stain on the floor as if it held the answers to world peace.

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo. We got that," Kate said, rolling her eyes.

"He's being… not-Gibbs," Tony said.

Kate watched him hook his heels on the bumper and cross his arms over his knees. She wondered what the hell Gibbs could have said to make brash DiNozzo curl up in this defensive posture.

"Tony?" McGee prompted, making it a question instead of the order Kate was about to give.

"Probie," Tony said, the businesslike tone making the young agent jump a little. "What questions would you have asked Landry?"

"Uh, um. Well—" McGee stammered, completely caught off-guard by the question.

Kate took pity on him and answered, "How the boy had been acting lately. Problems at school? How Landry came to find the body. Did he hear the gunshot? How the boy got the gun," she rattled off, already distancing herself from the gruesome scene by not using Brian's name.

With a look, DiNozzo gave McGee a chance to redeem himself.

"Oh," the probie said. "How did Brian get those bruises?"

"Good," DiNozzo said with a nod of approval. He ran his left hand over his face and missed McGee's relieved smile.

"So," Kate said, trying to fit Tony's question into the puzzle of his and Gibbs' behavior. "Landry give the wrong answers?"

"Landry didn't give _any_ answers," Tony said, looking disgusted.

"And Gibbs let him get away with not answering?" McGee asked, sounding incredulous.

Kate watched as Tony faked a smile while rubbing absently at his right shoulder before dropping his hand back down to his knees.

"Probie snacks for you, McGee," DiNozzo said, but he sounded tired. "Almost."

"Wha… Almost?" McGee asked, perplexed.

"Landry didn't give answers because Gibbs didn't ask the questions. Didn't let me, either," he added darkly.

"Why not?" Kate asked immediately, wondering what the answer had to do with either man's anger—or Tony's quiet resignation.

"Well," DiNozzo said, spreading his hands, "I could say it was because he was too busy keeping Landry and me from killing each other…"

"But that doesn't explain why he didn't finish the interview himself," Kate finished for him. She added quickly, "Or have me do it."

"So why…" McGee started.

Tony sighed and got to his feet wearily. "I have no idea, McGee."

Before anyone could voice a theory—as if anyone had one—the elevator dinged and Ducky stepped into the garage, his bowtie slightly skewed as if he had been twisting it nervously.

"Ducky?" Kate said, raising an eyebrow. "What brings you down here?"

The doctor's eyes flicked among the three agents before landing on DiNozzo, and Ducky didn't miss the tightening around his mouth that he sensed was anger, not pain.

"Anthony," he said, watching Tony's left hand flicking open and closed. "Jethro said you needed my assistance?"

Kate read McGee's and Ducky's confusion as easily as Tony's quiet rage, but it was no real feat. Harder was figuring out just why DiNozzo looked positively murderous as he popped to his feet, obviously seething.

"_Jethro_ was wrong," he said before stalking across the garage as Gibbs had done a few minutes earlier.

But DiNozzo's hand slammed much harder against the elevator button. No one spoke until the doors had closed on the furious agent.

Then Ducky raised his eyes to the ceiling. "There are times when I do wish they weren't _quite_ so alike."


	5. Chapter 5

Ducky was surprised to find Tony waiting for him when he returned to autopsy.

Until he saw why the young agent was there.

DiNozzo stood, leaning against the bank of freezers, staring down at Brian Landry's face. The boy had placed the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger, sending the bullet slamming through his head to exit the opposite side just behind his ear. The odd result was that his face looked almost peaceful—if you could ignore the deathly paleness.

Ducky watched as Tony reached out a hand and placed it on the boy's cheek, murmuring words Ducky couldn't hear from outside the glass doors. The doctor watched the agent's eyes close in anguish before they popped open, zeroing in right on Ducky's face.

The doctor winced and walked through the pressurized doors, watching Tony zip up the body bag and slide the corpse back into the gaping mouth of the freezer.

"Thought they'd keep you longer," Tony said, so quietly that Ducky wasn't sure if the explanation was meant for his ears.

He just smiled even though Tony's pain was practically palpable. "I didn't talk their ears off, for once," he said. He paused, staring straight into the green eyes watching him. "Are you all right, my lad?"

Tony gave a quick shake of his head before turning away again, resting both hands on an empty table and letting his head hang. Ducky had no idea if his suffering was physical or otherwise, but he just moved to Tony's side and set a gentle hand on his shoulder, recoiling immediately at the agent's pained hiss.

"Anthony," Ducky said firmly, watching Tony flick a glance at the doors. He hoped Tony wouldn't bolt so he stepped back and asked, "Will you tell me what happened, please?"

The tight set of his mouth wasn't encouraging, but Tony finally said, "Things got a little ugly with the boy's father." He saw Ducky's eyes flick to his knuckles. "Don't worry, Ducky. I wouldn't hit a man who just walked in to his son's brains on the carpet."

Ducky blushed. "I'm sorry, Anthony. I didn't mean to imply that you would." He stayed silent a moment, knowing they were both thinking about the bruises on the body in the freezer. The doctor eyed DiNozzo's face, looking for signs of injury.

But Tony was shaking his head. "I ended up with my hand shoved up my back. Shoulder popped a little and Gibbs heard it. It's no big deal."

Ducky doubted that—and wondered how Gibbs had even let Landry get a hand on Tony. He shrugged off the thoughts and stepped forward, pausing before actually touching him to ask, "May I take a look anyway?"

He was just about to threaten to call Jethro back down when Tony gave in, nodding and sinking into Ducky's rolling chair with a yawn. Ducky stepped behind him and put a hand on his right shoulder, gently palpating the joint, looking for obvious deformities or swelling. He frowned as his skilled fingers found the minor swelling at the front of the shoulder, and he murmured an apology at Tony's sharp intake of breath.

He moved around to face the agent and nodded at the autopsy table. "Hop up for me, please?"

Tony gave him a crooked grin. "Hell, Doc, I didn't think it was _that_ bad."

Ducky smiled back softly. "I promise to leave the scalpels in the drawer." He waited until Tony was seated in front of him before holding out both hands, raising an eyebrow when the agent immediately reached out and took his fingers, squeezing with equal pressure. Ducky held his hands out, palms up, and Tony laid his hands flat on top, pushing down against Ducky's resistance. They repeated the gestures with Tony pushing up, outward and inward, and Ducky gave a little nod. "You have a bit of weakness in that right side, but the joint is intact. Have you injured that shoulder previously?"

Tony grinned again. "Ah, you noticed this isn't my first rodeo?"

Ducky opened his mouth to admonish the deflection, but Tony nodded and continued.

"Popped it out a couple of times playing football. It's fine, Ducky."

"Mmmm," was all Ducky said, and he saw DiNozzo wince at the brevity.

"Really," Tony said again. "It didn't even come all the way out this time. Just a subluxation—not a dislocation."

Ducky frowned again. "You have injured it enough to know the difference between dislocation and subluxation. And you are clearly in pain. I would have to say that you are not 'fine.' "

"Hey," Tony said, mock-outraged. "Phys ed major, remember? I know all kinds of medical terms—as long as they're related to sports injuries."

Ducky was thinking about the bruises on Brian's body and wondering if it was _only_ sports injuries that Tony was familiar with, and the doctor frowned thoughtfully. "Your records don't indicate any shoulder injuries, Anthony," he said quietly, looking up to meet Tony's eyes.

Ducky had expected embarrassment—or anger, even. But what he got was another crooked smile.

"Big-time college football, Ducky," he said, still smiling as though the memories were happy ones—instead of painful ones. At the doctor's blank look, Tony sighed a little and said, "Skill-position players' injuries don't always get reported."

With an exasperated sigh, Ducky hiked his chin up a bit. "Your coach should have been shot," he said angrily, holding up a hand to stop Tony's protest. "And whatever quack physician allowed you to play hurt."

Tony just shrugged. "It's how it goes," he said dismissively. "I'm fine. Really."

The doctor wanted to shake some sense into the lad, but he just asked, "Will you let me take x-rays? Just so that I may be certain of your expert diagnosis?"

Tony groaned and rolled his eyes. "Seriously? I'm fine."

Ducky let his gaze fall to the arm Tony was cradling against his chest, his left hand supporting his bent right elbow.

"Come on," Tony protested still. "You're the Duckman. You don't need x-rays to know everything's where it should be."

"You're right," Ducky agreed, nodding. He saw the wariness return to the sharp young agent's eyes. "You should really have an MRI to be sure you didn't tear something."

"Gah, Ducky. You're killing me here," Tony whined. He outstretched his right arm and turned it left and right, doing an excellent job of hiding any pain the movement caused. "See? Everything's working. I'm perfectly fine."

Ducky sighed heavily, shaking his head. "So I gather even asking you to keep your arm in a sling for a few days is out of the question as well?" He didn't wait for the automatic response. "Why exactly did you even come see me then?"

A dark look flitted through Tony's eyes, and Ducky could have sworn the agent looked slightly guilty.

But then Tony said, "I wanted to tell Brian we hadn't given up on him," he said quietly. "Even if Gibbs seems like he has."

A look of pure shock crossed Ducky's face at those soft words, but his stunned mouth couldn't form the question.

Tony answered anyway. "Gibbs didn't question Landry on the bruises. He wouldn't let me ask, either." He looked up into Ducky's worried eyes. "Since when has Gibbs ever backed down from asking the hard questions?"

"Never, to my knowledge," Ducky said even a theory was forming in his mind. It was one he couldn't share with Tony, though, so he said, "Perhaps Gibbs is giving the man time to get over the shock of finding his son like that?"

Tony considered that. "Maybe." He let out a long breath, shaking his head and sliding off the autopsy table. "It's not like Landry's a flight risk or anything."

Ducky nodded, noting Tony's obvious distress over his boss's unusual behavior and wishing he could just come out with his theory. But Ducky would never betray Jethro's confidence in such a way.

"You're probably right," Tony said, heading for the door. His eyes flicked back to the drawer holding the boy's bruised body one last time before he said, "I just hate that the bastard thinks he's getting away with hurting his son for even a minute. Dirtbag belongs in a prison cell for what he did."

DiNozzo was out the door before Ducky could even begin to agree with him.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm doing something here that I've never done before, and those of you who have figured out Ducky's theory will know what it is. I'm doing it both because it will add an extra layer of interest, emotion and intrigue, and because I'm not sure I believe that Ducky wouldn't have known about Jethro's first family before everyone else. That has always seemed hinky to me, so to speak. At any rate, I hope you, dear readers, will forgive me this slight rearranging of the canon timeline. Thank you to all of my readers: Your reviews never fail to pull me up to the top of this rollercoaster life of mine.


	6. Chapter 6

Kate watched Tony step out of the elevator and give a grin and a wave to the pretty blonde linguistics specialist. The agent rolled her eyes even though she was feeling envious of Tony's ability to shake off even the worst of crime scenes. As she sat writing her report, she could still smell the blood that had soaked into the carpet in the boy's room, could still see his lifeless blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. And while she would have bet that Tony would be the most affected by the day's events, her partner settled into his desk and fired up his computer as though eager to write his report.

_Probably so he can head out for a date with little miss linguistics,_ she thought, shaking her head.

McGee pulled her attention back to the conversation they were having before Tony returned, and Kate smiled at the quick glance the junior agent flicked from side to side to make sure Gibbs was still on his coffee run. "You really think Landry has PTSD?"

Kate opened her mouth to answer, but DiNozzo's dark glare and unusually hard tone stopped her cold.

"Making excuses for the Staff Sergeant, are we, Katie?" he asked, his smile accompanying the nickname anything but friendly. "Poor Marine saw some bad shit overseas so now he gets a free pass to take it out on his son?"

"PTSD is a serious—" Kate started, only to be cut off.

"I know that," DiNozzo said, the edge melting from his tone. "I've never been in a war and I'm not about to judge the soldiers who have. But nothing that happened to Landry was his boy's fault. Brian shouldn't have had take the brunt of it."

"Agreed," Kate said, eyes narrowing at the anger that had returned to her partner's eyes. She frowned tightly, glad Gibbs had pulled him out of the house before any damage could be done. "I'm not making excuses for him, DiNozzo. McGee asked why an otherwise apparently perfect member of society would do something so horrible to his own child. I was simply giving a reason—not an excuse."

To Kate's surprise, Tony softened completely, his eyes sympathetic as he nodded before turning back to his report. "At least that makes sense," he said, his gaze jerking up as Gibbs strode back into the squad room.

"DiNozzo!"

The bark from Gibbs was not entirely unexpected, but Kate jumped a little anyway. Her eyes slid over Tony from head to toe as she remembered where he had been, but she still couldn't see any sign of an injury. She wondered if maybe Gibbs had sent Ducky to deal with the emotional wounds inflicted by the painful scene—and if Tony had accepted her PTSD theory so easily because he had heard something similar from the doctor.

"Yeah, Boss?" Tony answered, his voice perfectly calm.

And pain-free, Kate noted.

"Ducky clear you for duty?" Gibbs asked, settling at his desk as his eyes made the same trek up and down the agent's long frame.

Kate's gaze flicked between the two, hoping to catch a clue as to the origin of their earlier animosity, and she saw Gibbs' scowl deepen even though Tony just lifted his right shoulder with a smile.

"He didn't say I wasn't fit for duty," Tony said. "And it's Friday night, Boss. I think he would have mentioned any physical activities I should avoid."

Kate almost smiled at the shock on McGee's face as Tony winked, baiting their increasingly furious boss.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs growled.

"Boss?" Tony asked, almost sweetly.

"I want a signed report from Ducky on my desk on Monday morning clearing you for field work," Gibbs said, snapping the words out crisply, his eyes never leaving his agent's smiling face.

The smile disappeared and Tony raised an eyebrow. "You really want a detailed report on this going into my file, Gibbs?"

Kate had no idea why that comment would so infuriate Gibbs, but she jumped about as high as McGee did when Gibbs slammed a fist down onto his desk.

Tony didn't even flinch. "I guess I could just be vague," he offered, setting Gibbs off even more.

The lead agent was up and across the bullpen faster than Kate could register the rage in his eyes. Gibbs grabbed Tony by the shirtfront and hauled him to his feet.

"You think I want you to lie about how you got hurt?" he asked, his voice deadly calm despite the slight shake in the hand fisted in Tony's shirt. He didn't wait for an answer. "With me," he growled, releasing the agent and stalking off toward the elevator.

Tony followed, his movements as easy as the smile on his face. "If I'm not back in an hour," he called over his shoulder, "call the cops."

Kate shook her head and went back to her report, suddenly wondering where Air Force One was at that very moment.

* * *

Gibbs was surprised the emergency stop button didn't break.

Or his hand, he thought while fighting the urge to give that hand a quick shake.

He was also fighting the urge to shake some sense into his senior agent, who was leaning casually against the side of the elevator and picking at his nails as if bored.

"This is where you usually start talking," Tony said, infuriatingly calm. He cocked his head to the side. "It's probably the one place on the planet where you do most of the talking."

Gibbs bit back a smile, hating that DiNozzo was so damned hard to stay mad at—and then he remembered he wasn't even mad at Tony.

"What did Ducky say about your shoulder?" he asked, almost smiling at the confusion on Tony's face and knowing his agent had been expecting a lecture.

"Popped out, popped in," DiNozzo said, shrugging with no signs of pain. "Everything's where it should be."

Gibbs eyed him, trying to decide whether to believe him. "Ducky's rarely that brief."

Tony frowned. "I know," he said, shaking his head. "I was expecting some long story about the flexibility of Ethiopian gymnasts. I'm oddly disappointed."

Gibbs did smile at that, his blue eyes studying DiNozzo's face. "You sure you're okay, Tony?" he finally asked, his voice as soft as the dim bluish lighting.

"Perfectly fine," Tony said, looking Gibbs in the eye.

Gibbs nodded, hesitated and then said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that, right?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably, but he nodded, too. "Of course, Boss." He smiled. "If you'd meant to do it, I'd be in a hospital right now. Surrounded by pretty nurses, probably, and—"

"Goddammit, DiNozzo!" Gibbs exploded, seeing Tony's slight smile and wondering why his agent was so intent on provoking him. "You tell me exactly what the hell is going on with you. Now."

Tony didn't hesitate, and his voice was low and calm. "Are you even going to go back and finish questioning Landry?"

Gibbs opened his mouth to answer, but Tony didn't give him a chance.

"Or does he get a free pass on abuse because Brian took care of his problem for him?" DiNozzo finished, his eyes practically sparking despite the calm tone.

"You ever seen me give a free pass to anyone, DiNozzo?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Landry's not going anywhere—except to his son's funeral. There's a time for the questions you wanted to ask, but today wasn't it."

DiNozzo didn't debate that. He just muttered darkly, "He belongs in a fucking cell. Sooner the better."

"Go home, DiNozzo."

Tony frowned, unable to form a response to the sudden, blunt order.

Gibbs did his best to separate himself from the agent he needed to be. "You're too close to this," he said evenly. "You're identifying too much with the boy to be able to be objective about the father. Go home."

"I need to finish my report," Tony said tightly, turning to stare at his reflection in the silvered doors.

"Do it Monday," Gibbs said. He turned, watching his own reflection instead of the man beside him. "You're hurt. It can wait."

"I'm _fine_, Gibbs," Tony said, turning on his boss and balling his hands into fists.

Gibbs looked him up and down. "Maybe the shoulder is," he conceded. "But you're not. Don't go punching any walls tonight, DiNozzo. And go easy on the bottle."

The short, hard bark of a laugh wasn't exactly unexpected—but it bounced harshly around in the small space of the elevator. "You know me so well, don't you, Boss?" Tony practically snarled. Gibbs watched him take a breath and calm himself. His voice was low and even when he said, "You can send me home, Gibbs, but you can't tell me what to do when I get there."

With a glance to his right, Gibbs reached out and pressed a button, seeing the slight confusion on Tony's face. Gibbs asked, "That shoulder really okay?"

"Would I lie to you, Boss?" Tony returned with a small smile.

Gibbs just gave him a look.

Tony rolled his eyes. "It's fine." He paused, sliding a sidelong glance at Gibbs. "We going where I think we're going?"

"If you're sure you're up to it."

Gibbs noted that Tony's smile was one of the rare genuine ones.

"Bring it on, Gibbs."


	7. Chapter 7

Gibbs watched Tony completely ignore the padded facemasks lying on a table near the ring, and he smiled, remembering their last trip to the mats. He raised an eyebrow, though, when DiNozzo climbed under the ropes without bothering to don gloves or tape his hands. Gibbs just shrugged and entered the ring sans gloves too—because he wasn't planning on letting either of them land any damaging blows.

No, this was about letting DiNozzo vent his anger in a safe place.

And hopefully tiring him out so that he couldn't do much more than go home and collapse.

Gibbs squared off against his senior agent, watching Tony's movements carefully as they both brought their hands up. He wasn't surprised when DiNozzo's first punch was a straight jab with his right hand, which Gibbs easily pushed away with an open palm. He saw no pain in Tony's reaction, only a slight smile.

"No need to go easy on me, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, tossing out a weak left hook that Tony blocked in similar fashion. Gibbs noted that the movement of his right arm didn't seem to bother the bouncing agent.

"Same here," Tony returned, feinting with an easy movement to step out of reach of Gibbs' slightly more forceful right jab.

"All right," Gibbs said with a nod. He flashed a smile a second before stepping forward, dodging Tony's left fist, grasping the outstretched arm and sweeping the agent's feet from under him, effectively dropping Tony onto his back on the mats. Gibbs winced a little as DiNozzo's right hand banged against the floor, but the younger agent just bounced right back up to his feet.

"I still can't quite figure out how you do that," DiNozzo said, sounding more thoughtful than frustrated as he studied Gibbs' movements.

"Want me to do it again?" Gibbs asked, ever the teacher.

Tony nodded and threw out his right fist this time. Gibbs hesitated for just a second—not wanting to put excess strain on that injured shoulder—and DiNozzo easily broke the hold, landing a light jab with his left fist on Gibbs' side.

The hit was more bump than punch, and Gibbs said, "Thought we weren't going easy?"

DiNozzo grinned. "You started it," he said. "My shoulder's fine, Gibbs. I'm not going to learn anything if you keep pulling punches."

Gibbs wanted to tell him this wasn't as much about learning how to fight as it was about learning _when, where and how_ to release that anger, but he kept his mouth shut. He stepped forward, using a weak left hook as a distraction, and as Tony blocked it and opened his mouth to complain, Gibbs drove a fist into his agent's exposed belly.

The soft _oomph_ was followed by a sheepish grin—and a quick jab with his right hand that caught a smiling Gibbs hard in the mouth.

DiNozzo dropped his stance immediately and held his hands up, palms outward. "Shit, Gibbs, I—"

"Don't worry about it," Gibbs cut in, still holding his position. His eyes dropped to the redness on Tony's knuckles and he knew he'd have matching marks on his face. He smiled. "Think of the rumors we can start."

Tony smiled back and threw a decent punch that Gibbs just managed to block. The two agents danced around each other, throwing mostly blocked punches and landing occasional blows that were too glancing to do any real damage. Gibbs was mostly enjoying sparring with a partner who was a fairly equal match for him—and who wasn't deathly afraid of him.

Gibbs waited until Tony's movements slowed slightly and his breathing picked up, and the lead agent was thinking it was about time to drop his subordinate when the tiny slip in concentration had him throwing up a forearm to block a hard jab. Both men winced when Tony's already puffy knuckles slammed into the unforgiving muscle and bone of Gibbs' arm.

"Nice one," Gibbs said, catching Tony's smile just before it was replaced by shock as Gibbs used his momentum to grasp his arm and sweep his feet from under him.

Tony landed with a sharp gasp, and Gibbs realized he had used the agent's injured right arm to take him down. Gibbs didn't think he had pulled too roughly on it during the movement, but DiNozzo's curling onto his side and clutching at his shoulder said otherwise.

Gibbs immediately dropped to his knees beside him, ignoring the popping of his own joints to reach out and lay a gentle hand on Tony's exposed left side. Tony's breathing was shallow and fast as he rocked slightly, still holding the injured shoulder and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Gibbs gave him a moment to collect himself, hoping for the second time that day that he hadn't really hurt his agent. Tony stayed silent with his eyes closed long enough for Gibbs to doubt his earlier judgment that Ducky wouldn't have let him leave autopsy untreated if the damage was serious.

"Tony?" Gibbs kept his voice soft, but DiNozzo jerked anyway at the sudden intrusion into his little world of pain. "I'm going to call Ducky. Sit tight."

Expecting a protest—and unnerved when none came—Gibbs got to his feet, staring down at Tony for a moment before moving to the phone hanging nearby on the wall. He spoke just enough words to the doctor to convey the situation and then moved back to crouch at Tony's side. He didn't touch him, even though Tony was still squirming slightly and Gibbs wanted to turn him over so he wasn't lying on the damaged joint. He mostly just wanted to do something to help him through the pain.

_Pain that I caused_, Gibbs thought, his hand hovering over Tony's uninjured shoulder. He watched Tony's face as he waited for the doctor, kicking himself for even thinking this might help.

"This was a bad idea," Gibbs said, sighing. "I thought…"

"It's okay," Tony said, his green eyes opening and finding Gibbs' face. "It's my fault. I thought it was fine."

"You think you're fine as long as there's no arterial bleeding, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, feeling guilty that Tony's absolution had provided such a rush of relief.

Tony smiled. "Speaking of," he said, easing onto his back with a wince, "this one time in Peoria—"

"Now, now, Anthony," Ducky broke in as he stepped off the elevator. "I'm the only one who gets to tell long-winded stories around here."

Gibbs watched as Ducky hunkered down and looked down into pained green eyes.

The doctor tutted softly. "I should also be the only one allowed to make diagnoses," he said, making Tony wince before Ducky even touched him.

It made Gibbs wonder how Tony had sweet-talked the doctor out of going to the hospital—or if he had actually done the damage just now.

"Sorry, Ducky," Tony was saying.

DiNozzo let out a sharp cry of pain when Ducky's hands immediately found an apparent sore spot.

"I'm sorry, Anthony," Ducky said, pulling his hand away. "I know that hurts. Let's get you up so I can take a better look at you downstairs."

"Duck," Gibbs said, shooting him a glare. "Don't you think an ER is a better idea?"

Tony made an odd little sound as Ducky helped him sit up that Gibbs figured was more exasperation than pain—or maybe both.

The doctor shook his head. "They'll only take x-rays, fit him with a sling and give him painkillers and instructions to see on orthopedist on Monday. Nothing I can't do for him here—and with much less of a wait."

Gibbs nodded, hearing the unspoken end of that sentence: _And much less of a fight from our patient here._

Gibbs slid under Tony's left shoulder and hoisted him to his feet, trying to ignore the death-grip Tony had on him—and the little hitches of breath as the movement obviously hurt him. It was strange, Gibbs thought as he and Ducky helped the agent to the elevator, because he had seen the former cop get knocked over the head, dragged through the sewers—hell, even shoved out of an airplane. But Tony never really complained, not even when that landing had been less than textbook.

So now, feeling DiNozzo's gulped breaths and hearing his pained little gasps, it just seemed _wrong._

They made it down to autopsy without incident, and Gibbs watched DiNozzo eye Ducky warily. Apparently, Ducky saw the trepidation, too, because he said, "I won't touch you if you don't want me to. We can let the x-rays reveal any deformities."

"Thanks, Ducky," Tony said quietly, eyes downcast as if embarrassed.

And somehow, that just made Gibbs feel worse. As much as he wanted to bolt and leave DiNozzo to Ducky's care, the Marine stayed put, watching Tony wince his way through the various positions the doctor needed for his radiographs. Gibbs used the time to make a quick call upstairs, dismissing his remaining agents and hanging up before Kate could even ask any questions. He figured the two junior agents would be as grateful for the reprieve as they were curious.

A few minutes later, Ducky stood staring at those x-rays, frowning thoughtfully. Gibbs cracked first, surprised Tony hadn't demanded immediate answers himself. Gibbs tried not to think about what that said about just how much he was hurting.

"Duck?" was all he said, a look conveying the rest.

"The humerus is well-positioned within the glenoid," Ducky said, turning slightly and catching Gibbs' glare. He translated, "Everything is where it should be—"

"See? I'm fine," Tony said, speaking the words Gibbs had selfishly hoped to hear much sooner.

It seemed DiNozzo had his game face back on, Gibbs noted with conflicting relief and exasperation.

But the doctor was shaking his head. "You still need to see an orthopedist," he said sternly. "You will likely need an MRI to determine the extent of any soft-tissue damage. I'm writing you a prescription for some painkillers—which you need to actually take. You'll need rest this weekend. And to keep that arm immobilized in this."

Ducky pulled a sling from a drawer and gave Tony another look, his tone firm. "You will wear it for the entire weekend, Anthony. Won't you?"

"I'll make sure he does, Ducky," Gibbs said, drawing a half-panicked look and then a sigh from Tony. "Put that thing on and I'll take you home."

"Boss," DiNozzo said, sliding off the table onto what seemed to Gibbs to be unsteady legs. "I'll be fine on my own. I don't need you to play taxi for me."

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow. "That car of yours still a stick-shift?"

Tony stayed stubbornly silent while Ducky positioned the sling on his injured arm. "I don't want to leave it here," he said sullenly.

Normally, Gibbs would have smacked him and told him to stop whining. But as he watched Ducky make another adjustment while Tony did a rather convincing job of pretending it didn't hurt, Gibbs was feeling a bit guilty again.

So he smacked him and said, "It's safer here than at your place."

Tony did wince at that, but Gibbs figured it was likely at the pain of losing his beloved Corvette in the way that he had.

"With me, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered—albeit mildly. "I'm taking you home."

"Get some rest, my boy," Ducky said with a kind smile and pat on the arm. "Nothing strenuous in these next few days, all right?"

Tony stared at the floor for a moment before looking up and watching the doctor's concerned face. He broke into a forced grin then. "I'll try, Ducky. Thanks for everything."


	8. Chapter 8

Gibbs caught Tony's embarrassed flush when he plucked the keys from his hand and then held the door to the agent's apartment open for him. He almost smacked into Tony when he stopped short midway down the entrance hall.

"I don't care if it's a mess, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, slightly amused. "Been a long week."

Tony didn't say a word as he moved down the hall and went immediately to drop onto his couch, a black leather one that looked so comfortable Gibbs thought about going furniture shopping for the first time in a decade or so. The couch, along with the dark wood of the rest of the furniture, was exactly what Gibbs had been expecting of his agent, whose elegant suits sometimes contrasted with his inane, often juvenile sense of humor. So while Gibbs had been expecting the sleek décor, he had also been expecting ties strewn over the glass-topped coffee table, socks poking out from underneath the large entertainment center.

And then Rule No. 3 flashed through his head as Gibbs took in the spotless apartment, and he kicked himself for making assumptions, always a dangerous prospect when dealing with the chameleon-like DiNozzo. It made Gibbs wonder if he really knew anything for certain about his agent—and if now was really the best time to try to find out.

Gibbs watched Tony's eyes slip closed as he melted back into the soft cushions, making him wonder if he was hiding the pain of his injury or if he was pissed that his boss had insulted his home before being even two steps inside.

Never one to apologize, Gibbs just said, "Nice place, DiNozzo."

Tony opened his eyes, his grin saying, "Apology accepted." But his actual words were, "You assumed I was too busy to clean up. But that's assuming I'm ever here long enough to make a mess. Probably why this boss I've got has a rule against making assumptions."

Gibbs, completely chagrinned—and of course not showing it one bit—just stared at Tony, not saying a word while he reminded himself again just how sharp his agent was.

Tony sank down deeper into the couch and closed his eyes again, and Gibbs thought about leaving. But then he saw Tony's hand moving almost as if on its own to reach up and remove the constricting sling.

"Don't even think about it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, watching Tony's cheeks go slightly red. "You can't tell me it doesn't feel better with it on."

"Mmmm," Tony murmured, noncommittal. He gave his head a little shake, as if remembering something, and said, "I need a hot shower. Which is not possible with this thing on."

Pushing himself up with a wince, Tony shot Gibbs another grin. "Unless you really wanna smell me all night long…"

Gibbs rolled his eyes before jerking his chin at the hallway. "Go on, then," he said, turning toward the equally immaculate kitchen. "I'll find something to make for dinner."

He wasn't expecting DiNozzo to burst out laughing—but then he remembered the painkillers. And Tony's odd reactions to them. He watched Tony strip off the sling and prop a hand on the wall as if to keep from falling over laughing, as if his body too had suddenly remembered those reactions.

"You saying I can't cook?"

That made Tony stop immediately. But then he started up again at the look on Gibbs' face.

"No," he managed, the giggling stopping mid-breath as he realized that answer could go both ways. "You're good, Gibbs. But I doubt you can magically find cookable food in my kitchen."

"Too lazy to go grocery shopping, DiNozzo?"

"Lazy?" Tony repeated, the laughter forgotten, replaced by annoyance. But then he smiled what could only be described as a lazy smile. "Nah. No time. See, I have this real demanding boss—"

"Shower," Gibbs said, torn between exasperation and amusement. "I'll find something in there."

Tony pushed himself off the wall, his eyes going slightly wide and making Gibbs want to ask if he was okay. But then Tony just winced theatrically and laughed again as he moved down the hall, calling back over his shoulder, "Yeah—the takeout menus on the fridge."

Gibbs just shook his head, finally letting the smile creep over his face as he headed toward the kitchen, intent on proving Tony wrong.

He gave up after tossing the third-straight squishy vegetable.

And then ordered Chinese.

* * *

"So, pizza or Chinese?"

Gibbs just barely stopped himself from jumping. He turned and found Tony leaning against the doorframe, and Gibbs noted the sling was still absent from the agent's injured arm.

"Missing something?" Gibbs asked, the mild tone belying the ice in his blue eyes. He saw Tony open his mouth to protest, but he cut him off. "Put it on, DiNozzo. You're lucky Ducky didn't make you go to the ER."

"You have no idea," Tony said softly. He shook his head and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Gibbs to wonder at the cryptic comment.

But then Tony was back, a sour look on his face as he fiddled with the sling. "I hate hospitals," he grumbled.

Gibbs just rolled his eyes and stepped forward, making deft adjustments and ignoring the redness creeping across DiNozzo's face at having to stand still and accept the help. "Don't know anyone who does like them," Gibbs said.

Tony was spared a response by the ringing of the doorbell and Gibbs' half-amused, "Don't even think about it."

After paying the driver and returning to the kitchen, Gibbs was surprised to find Tony at the table instead of in front of the TV, and he reminded himself to stop assuming things with his unfathomable agent.

"Habit," Tony said, making Gibbs wonder if he had spoken out loud. "We don't have to stay in here."

Gibbs flicked a glance toward the showroom-clean living room. "What if I drop rice on that fancy couch of yours?" He wasn't quite sure if he was joking.

Tony grinned anyway and tossed a wadded-up napkin at his boss. "No biggie."

Gibbs nodded slowly, unconvinced, but he smiled as Tony began unpacking the food one-handed. "Here's fine, too," Tony said, reaching for chopsticks.

Gibbs shook off his momentary fog and snatched them from his hand. "You can't work those right-handed, DiNozzo. Use a fork."

Tony grinned again. "Good call, Boss."

They ate in silence for so long Gibbs thought his normally loquacious agent might start convulsing. And then, finally, Tony broke.

"This is good. Thanks." He paused, receiving a nodded acknowledgment. "You remembered my favorite."

"Been working with you for over three years. I should hope I'd know your usual order."

Tony looked up, an odd little smile on his face. "Yeah. But I spent two years in Baltimore and my partner didn't even know I was allergic to radishes."

"You are?" Gibbs deadpanned.

"Very funny," Tony said, smiling. He lifted a shoulder. "Jackass ordered me a salad once and about killed me. I'm just saying I appreciate it, Boss."

Gibbs nodded. "You ever think he might have been trying to kill ya?"

Tony raised an eyebrow.

Gibbs grinned. "You never order salads, DiNozzo."

"He never really did like me," Tony said, waving his fork before turning back to his food.

Gibbs set his chopsticks down and watched Tony do a fine job of shoveling down his dinner left-handed. It made him realize the agent always answered his phone with his left hand instead of his dominant right, and Gibbs wondered if Tony was ambidextrous. He selfishly hoped so—along with hoping the damage to his shoulder wasn't serious.

"How ya feeling, Tony?" Gibbs asked, feeling guilty again.

Tony choked on a forkful of rice.

He coughed a few times and shook his head. "I'm fine, Gibbs. Don't worry about it."

The nonchalance was just a little too much—and a little too feigned considering the emotion flickering in the green eyes watching him that Gibbs just knew was pain. So the lead agent reacted in the only way he knew how to express the guilt and concern he was feeling.

He yelled.

"Dammit, DiNozzo!"

Tony started visibly, obviously not having expected the anger, but he evened out his expression so thoroughly he might have taken an iron to his face. "I'm really—"

"You're in pain," Gibbs said, softly this time, his gaze locked on Tony's.

"Not really. I took the pills Ducky gave me, and it doesn't even hurt," he said, getting up to take his plate to the sink.

Gibbs' eyes never left the agent's back and he wondered briefly if Tony could feel the heat of his glare. Something clicked in his head and he asked, "So why aren't you all loopy? I thought Abby and I were going to have to tie you to a chair that time you broke those ribs."

Gibbs saw Tony's back go tense so he wasn't expecting Tony to turn around and give him a sheepish grin.

"Hell, Boss," Tony said, leaning back against the counter. "Having you in my kitchen is a little weird, I have to say. And the weirdness kinda trumps all the one-armed man jokes I've got buzzing around in my head. Not to mention you did a pretty good job of tiring me out in that ring."

Nodding slowly, Gibbs tried to sort through the explanation and decide if it was true or not—and how to feel about Tony's calling him out on his tactic. Mostly, he just couldn't imagine why DiNozzo wasn't pissed at him, and he said so. "You're not mad that I hurt you?" Gibbs asked, trying hard not to sound like he was conducting an interrogation. Tony didn't respond right away so he asked, "What if I did serious damage to that shoulder, DiNozzo? Will you be pissed at me then?"

The look on Tony's face was completely unreadable, but Gibbs read his tension—that pent-up anger he was trying so hard to find—in the flicking of the fingers of Tony's left hand. Gibbs wasn't surprised in the least when DiNozzo noticed Gibbs' eyes on those restless digits and stopped immediately.

Tony finally gave a sigh and said, "There's no point in worrying about it until I know something for certain. It's probably fine."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then I'll bitch and moan about desk duty like I always do," Tony said, moving to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of his favorite microbrew. He offered one to Gibbs with a gesture and then rolled his eyes at the stern look before cracking open the bottle and taking a long pull. "One's not gonna kill me, _Dad._"

Tony stopped short at the look that flashed through Gibbs' eyes, and he lowered the bottle slowly. He set it on the table and cocked his head to the side, his sharp eyes appraising as they moved over his boss's face.

"So tell me, Gibbs," he said, a tight, unamused smile twisting his lips. "Are you here because you feel guilty for hurting me?" A short, tense pause was accompanied by a narrowing of green eyes. "Or are you worried all my daddy issues are going to push me into blowing my brains across the carpet, just like Brian did?"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **My loyal readers who know my take on Tony's past won't be surprised, but please be forewarned: This chapter deals with childhood abuse.

**

* * *

**There were very few times Gibbs could remember being shocked speechless. One of them was the day a teenage Shannon had smiled nervously up at him and then planted a kiss right on his lips. Another was when she had smiled at him, nervously again but with eyes overflowing with joy, and told him she was pregnant.

So having been a father, Gibbs shoved down his rage over the fact that this man standing in front of him had been so damaged by his own parents that he couldn't understand a friend offering to look after him without expecting an ulterior motive.

"You want me to leave," Gibbs said quietly, "I'll leave."

Tony drew a deep breath but didn't say a word.

So Gibbs picked up the slack, for once. "I felt bad for hurting you," he said by way of explanation for his continued presence. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay tonight."

Gibbs wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried by the lack of the requisite "I'm fine." But he was unnerved by the complete lack of a response—and the blankness in Tony's eyes as he leaned against the kitchen counter, the beer bottle hanging forgotten from long fingers.

Letting out a long breath and forcing himself not to look away, Gibbs said softly, "And I never should have made that comment about your father. I was out of line."

Tony raised an eyebrow and smiled an emotionless smile. "If that's your version of an apology," he said, his tone giving away nothing. He shrugged. "I'll take it. Don't worry about it, Boss."

"You want me to say it?" Gibbs asked. And he knew he would.

Tony look horrified. "Hell no," he said quickly. "Because that would be a sign of weakness, and we can't have that from our fearless leader."

"I'm sensing sarcasm," Gibbs said wryly. His tone was sober again when he said, "You're still pissed at how I handled Landry."

Tony sighed and flicked a tired glance toward his couch. Gibbs read the look and figured DiNozzo had actually taken the painkillers because he looked exhausted at only eight in the evening. Gibbs rose and headed for the living room, leaving Tony no choice but to follow—or run off to bed, which Gibbs was glad he didn't do. Because he still wasn't sure Tony believed that hurting his people—physically and with prying, too-personal barbs—wasn't part of Gibbs' usual managerial style. There were days when Gibbs still couldn't believe _he_ was a supervisor. Sure, his investigative skills were unparalleled and he got results from his people, but his tactics had been called into question more than once—and by more than one sobbing probie.

They got settled, Gibbs in the most comfortable chair he ever sat in and Tony on the far end of the couch, whether to discreetly prop his immobilized elbow on the arm or to get as much distance between them as possible, Gibbs wasn't entirely sure.

But those thoughts were erased as DiNozzo stretched long legs and propped bare feet on the coffee table, his words contrasting sharply with the relaxed posture. "You really wanna know what's bugging me, Boss? Honestly?"

"No, Tony," Gibbs said, catching DiNozzo's slight flinch. "Lie to me."

DiNozzo didn't smile. And he met Gibbs' eyes unflinchingly.

"What do you know about my father?"

_Well, _Gibbs thought, _wasn't expecting that. _

"I know you've had injuries that aren't in your medical records," Gibbs said, figuring lies and evasions were the worst possible way to deal with this.

"I told Ducky. College football is as much about the business as it is the game." He smiled but his eyes stayed hard. "And as you pointed out, I didn't exactly have my dad on the sidelines to pull me and chew out my coach."

Gibbs kept his face impassive even as he was wincing inside. "Not just the shoulder, DiNozzo," was all he said.

Tony's mouth tightened and he said, "Ducky?"

"Was just worried about you," Gibbs said, holding up a hand. _And so was I_, he thought, his mind on the faint scars on his agent's back. Gibbs would never forget the day he had stormed into an ER exam room to find a doctor helping Tony out of whatever fancy shirt he'd had on that day. It was the first time he had laid eyes on those thin, silvery scars—and the first time he had wanted to meet Tony's father, preferably in a dark alley somewhere. Gibbs hadn't said anything, and he figured DiNozzo had assumed the scars were too faded or Gibbs' eyesight was too bad to pick them out among the mottled bruising from a particularly tough collar's boot. But Gibbs knew the ferocity of his tirade had little to do with the crazy-yet-brave stunt his agent had pulled that day.

Tony drew a long breath and let it out slowly. "What's it matter now?" he asked, trying to dismiss what Gibbs knew was serious, repeated childhood abuse as if waving away a pesky housefly. "Ducky worried the arm I broke when I was eight is going to spontaneously crack in half again?"

"Tony," Gibbs said, gently. And Tony flinched again. "There are no broken arms listed in your records."

DiNozzo surprised him by laughing and rolling his eyes. "That's because my father destroyed every shred of evidence that I was also in the crash that killed my mother."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed and he started to ask how the man had accomplished that.

But DiNozzo anticipated him and said with a shrug, "Money and powerful friends."

Gibbs closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Those eyes snapped open again and he regarded DiNozzo warily.

"Why?" Tony said. "You're wondering why, right?"

Gibbs nodded mutely.

"But you won't ask?" Tony said, his expression amused as he called out his oft-fearless boss for the second time that night. "Because you're thinking just like him and you don't like it. But you need to know—because your curiosity is legendary, Boss—if it was my fault."

"It was a car accident," Gibbs said, finding his voice. "You were just a kid." He looked Tony in the eyes. "It was not your fault."

Tony shrugged again. "It could have been, though. Maybe I distracted her. I've never really been able to sit still, as you well know. Maybe we were arguing. Maybe I secretly hated her because she never came to any of my games like everyone else's moms did so maybe I grabbed the wheel that night." A smile. "I didn't. We weren't. It was dark and raining. And she was so wasted I was probably drunk off the fumes."

Gibbs nodded, understanding why DiNozzo's father hadn't wanted his son's injuries reported—because it meant he let his drunk wife drive off with their child.

"But it could have been my fault," Tony continued. "So I don't blame you for wondering. Just like I didn't blame him for thinking it. Just like I didn't blame him for smacking me around later—because, really, I hit my head pretty hard in the crash and I didn't exactly remember everything that happened. So I started to believe him when he told me it was my fault. When he would grab me by that arm and tell me I killed her," Tony said, shrugging casually, his eyes never leaving Gibbs' face, "I just believed him."

"Tony, I…" Gibbs trailed off, his eyes sad.

But Tony just chuckled. "Come on, Gibbs. It's not like you're surprised."

Gibbs didn't say a word—couldn't think of anything to say to try to make any of this right.

"I mean," Tony continued, having never moved from his slouched position on the couch, "you're the one who brought up my father earlier. If you wanted to know the details, all you had to do was ask. I'll tell you whatever you want to hear, Gibbs. My mother loved rain. Even when I was a tiny little kid and probably too young to be running around in a downpour, she'd take me outside during storms and we'd watch the lightning together. One of my last memories of her is her pretty face turned up to the night sky, raindrops running down her face like happy tears as she twirled in the middle of the driveway. She told me that night it was the only time she ever felt clean. And at the time, my eight-year-old brain was thinking about all the times I tried to get out of bath time. But now, after all these years doing this job, it makes me sick because I now know what she meant."

"Tony—"

But DiNozzo wasn't done.

But he wasn't angry either.

He simply spoke calmly, his eyes on the ceiling as he stayed reclining on his couch. "I've never been able to figure out if she was trying to kill us that night. I mean, I know why she would want an easy out. But she loved me. Maybe it was the only way she thought she could stop the abuse." Tony flicked a glance at Gibbs, who looked sick but kept his mouth shut, not sure if he was more unwilling or unable to speak. "Yeah, she knew what he was doing to me. He was smart and kept me playing sports year-round to explain away the bruises, but no game leaves the kind of marks his belt did. You know, those scars you were trying so hard to pretend you didn't see that day in the ER?"

"Shit," Gibbs cursed softly, running a hand over his face. "I should have—"

"Nah," Tony said, giving his head a shake without actually lifting it from the couch cushions. "I'm glad you didn't. Probably would have led to a seriously awkward conversation that I wouldn't have handled very well."

_Like you're handling this one?_ Gibbs thought. _This has got to hurt, but you just sound so… blank. It's so wrong. _

Gibbs ignored the vision of Brian Landry's eternally blank eyes, knowing that wasn't why he was here tonight—despite what his agent might think.

"Look, Boss," Tony said, bringing his eyes down to meet Gibbs'. "I had a shitty childhood. But it's all in the past. My father hasn't laid a hand on me in decades. Hell, we haven't even spoken in years."

Gibbs thought about that for a moment. "Thought he got you a power sander for your birthday?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "And I'm sure he tells the secretary who sends the packages each year all kinds of happy little lies about me." He grinned suddenly, but Gibbs had no idea why. "Gotta keep up appearances."

Gibbs had no idea what to do with that so he turned the conversation back in his head. He frowned. "What he did to you might be in the past, but it shaped who you are, DiNozzo."

Tony's smile went brittle. "No psychoanalyzing while I'm on painkillers," he said, sounding wary. The smile turned more amused, as if by sheer force of will. "Not nice."

Gibbs just gave him a look that said he would do as he damned well pleased. It was a look Tony was very used to—or should be, by now. His tone was somber when he said, "Can you really tell me you weren't thinking about your father in that room with Landry today?"

Tony opened his mouth, stopped, then said, quietly, "Boss. He came after me."

"After you baited him," Gibbs returned. "You wanted him to hit you so you could swing back."

Tony didn't dispute that. He just asked, "Can you really tell me you don't think he beat Brian? That he didn't deserve to get hit back? By someone who _isn't_ a twelve-year-old boy who's scared to death of him?"

"Can you really tell me you think Landry deserved to be sitting in jail during his son's funeral?" Gibbs asked, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands.

"Yes," Tony answered, without a moment's hesitation.

"And people say I'm the bastard," Gibbs muttered. He looked at his agent, eyes moving from Tony's scraped, bruised knuckles to his emotionless expression. "You don't feel a lick of compassion for a man whose only son just blew his brains out in his bedroom while he sat a floor below?"

Tony stared back, blankly.

"Imagine how he must have felt hearing that gunshot," Gibbs said, trying again because while he knew DiNozzo was a lot of things—many of them contradictory—Gibbs knew he was not heartless.

But Tony just said, "Maybe he should have thought of the consequences before beating the shit out of his kid. Repeatedly." DiNozzo's face took on a thoughtful expression. "What's with you, Gibbs? Knowing you, I'd have thought you'd be the one wanting to kill the guy."

Gibbs didn't answer right away—because he couldn't tell Tony the truth. He couldn't tell his agent how his own daughter's death had shattered him. He couldn't tell Tony how blinding, how crushing the pain of losing his only child had been. And while even thinking about laying a hand on Kelly made him sick, so did the thought of being unable to lay his baby to rest. His girls' funeral had been the single most difficult thing he had ever done—but it had also been necessary to his beginning to try to find a way to move on.

"Can we just drop it then?" DiNozzo asked, sounding a bit desperate—and maybe even a little scared.

And Gibbs kicked himself because he knew DiNozzo had picked up on his anguish at those memories even if he couldn't know the specifics. Gibbs nodded, reading Tony's immediate relief. But he said, "We'll pick him up on Monday, and he'll pay for what he did to his son."

Tony nodded back, sinking down into the cushions again and closing his eyes.

Gibbs read the pain on his tired features and thought, _It's just too bad your father won't ever pay for what he did to you._


	10. Chapter 10

Gibbs stayed most of the next day, sitting opposite Tony while they watched college football games. He wasn't surprised by the sheer volume of statistics his agent rattled off during those games or that Tony flipped among several channels, never settling on one for more than a few minutes. Normally, Gibbs would have been annoyed, but he was too busy thinking about the previous night's revelations—and DiNozzo's complete ignoring of them today.

It was like the conversation had never happened.

Gibbs knew Tony was good at pretending—it was what made him so good undercover—but he had expected _something_ today after last night's painful admissions.

He was also distracted by Tony's near-constant restless shifting, because he knew the injured shoulder was to blame—knew _he_ was to blame. But he didn't mention it—either the damaged shoulder or Tony's sickening excuse for a childhood—because he knew it would take both time and patience to even begin breaching the walls DiNozzo had spent a lifetime building. And while patience wasn't always Gibbs' strong suit, he knew the end result would be worth the long haul. He was a man who built boats by hand, after all.

So Gibbs watched more football games in one day than he had in several previous seasons, nodded in appreciation at all the right impressive statistics and paid for the pizza over Tony's protests. After dinner, Gibbs watched his agent gradually grow more restless instead of succumbing to the sleepiness Gibbs had figured would come. Honestly, Gibbs had expected the painkillers to knock him on his ass despite his enthusiasm for the games.

"You got a hot date?" Gibbs asked after yet another glance at the clock.

Tony's eyes snapped forward like a schoolboy caught looking up his teacher's skirt. "You gonna punch me if I say yes?"

Gibbs frowned. "Why the hell would I punch you for having a hot date?" He felt the icy grip of dread that Tony might actually be afraid of him, but then he shook it off at the young man's grin.

"Because it's with Abby."

Gibbs raised a silver eyebrow and said, "You and Abby—"

"Are just friends," Tony cut in. "Her friend's band is playing a club in the District so I told her I'd go with her."

Blue eyes strayed to the sling protecting Tony's injured arm. "You think that's such a good idea?"

Tony looked confused for a moment before giving a one-sided shrug. "I don't think it's a place she should be going alone."

"Abby can take care of herself," Gibbs said, surprising his agent, who had obviously expected his boss to be more protective of the young scientist.

"You don't think she's too trusting?" Tony asked.

"I know the kinds of places she likes," Gibbs said, amused. "You don't think I haven't taught her how to protect herself?"

Tony grinned. "Yeah. All right." The smile faded. "So you don't mind if we go?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I'm not your father, DiNozzo."

He stopped, realizing what he had said—and its relation to the previous night's conversation.

But Tony just said, "Thank hell for that, right?" He turned up the grin to a near-blinding setting. "Then you'd have to lecture me on not drinking too much, not driving after drinking too much, being safe when I find a hot little—"

Gibbs held up a hand. "I get it, DiNozzo," he interrupted. "I think I'm actually glad Abby is going with you."

"See?" Tony said, standing and stretching with another glance at the clock. "You do worry about her. Awwwww. And you trust me to take care of her."

With eyes on Tony's back as he disappeared down the hall to get ready for his big night, Gibbs gave a bemused little sigh. "I meant maybe she could take care of you."

* * *

Abby straightened her skirt and raised her black-lace-gloved hand to knock on the door to Tony's apartment, only to have it swing inward before her knuckles even brushed the wood.

"Bossman!" she squeaked happily.

And then she really looked at him.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, stepping into the apartment and watching her boss as he shut the door behind her. "Is Tony okay?"

"He's … all right," Gibbs said, giving Abby the distinct impression that Tony had been doing a lot of insisting that he was "fine."

The Goth really looked at Gibbs. "Are you all right?" she asked, feeling the warmth of pleasure curl through her entire being at the pride in his eyes at her perception. "What happened?"

Gibbs flicked a glance down the hall. "Nothing."

Abby just gave him a look that said "not good enough." Or at least she hoped that's what it said. Meaningful looks were really more Gibbs' forte. Finally, she just asked, "What's wrong?"

Gibbs frowned. "I feel…"

Abby grinned. "It's okay, Gibbs. I won't tell anyone you had a feeling."

The glare was half-hearted at best. "Feel bad for hurting him."

Abby rolled her eyes at the forced admission. "Well, yeah. You care about him. It's Saturday night and you're here instead of with your boat or some sexy redhead so that's pretty obvious anyway." She smiled. "He knows you didn't mean to do it, Gibbs."

The agent shrugged.

Abby's eyes narrowed. "Did you two talk? I mean, it's hard to believe you've been hanging out for almost twenty-four hours and neither of you said a single word. But did you actually have a talk?"

Looking uncomfortable, Gibbs just nodded.

Abby shook her head, exasperated yet amused. "And?"

"We talked about—"

"Abby Normal!" Tony shouted from down the hall.

"Tooooonnnnnyyyyyyy!" Abby shouted back, taking off and launching herself at him but stopping at the last minute. A blush crept across her pale cheeks. She held her fingers up, centimeters apart. "Oops. I came _this close_ to totaling you. My bad."

Tony just grinned, stepping back to inspect the scientist's short plaid skirt and bright neon-green skull T-shirt. He studied the heavy black platform combat boots and raised an eyebrow. "You twist an ankle and I'm not going to be able to carry you home."

Her eyes scanned over him, ignoring the sling and taking in his black button-down shirt and dark pants. "You going Goth on me, Tony?" she asked, reaching up to lay a hand on his neck. "We could put a big ol' spider web right about here."

"Do it and I'll take it off with sandpaper," Gibbs said, reminding them of his presence.

"You're no fun sometimes, Gibbs," Abby said, fake pouting. It was hard because she was still practically grinning from ear to ear. "But tonight. Tonight is going to be amazing! Unforgettable, even! Dancing and music and people. It's going to be so much fun."

"Not too much fun, okay, Abbs?" Gibbs said, shooting a glance at his senior agent, who had come to stand beside his boss and his date for the night.

Abby rolled her eyes. "Okay. Not too much drinking," she said, turning to Tony. "And no drinking for you. Not while you're on painkillers."

Tony shrugged. "Consider me your very own personal designated driver," he said. He gave Abby a mock-stern look. "And no booing the opener because they suck."

"And no moshing for you," Abby said.

"And no picking fights with posers," Tony returned.

They grinned and both said, "And no hooking up without using—"

"Get out of here, will ya?" Gibbs said, giving them simultaneous headslaps.

Abby squealed in delight even as Tony gave Gibbs the eye—and Abby couldn't tell if it was from having to share his headslap or something else until he spoke.

"You kicking me out of my own home, Boss?" he asked. And for just a second, Abby couldn't tell if he was actually offended.

Gibbs just smiled and headed for the door. "I'm kicking me out, too, DiNozzo." He called back over his shoulder, "Don't get into too much trouble, you two."


	11. Chapter 11

The club was dark and the crowd large and enthusiastic.

Couples, friends and strangers all pressed against each other, the air-conditioning system nowhere near powerful enough to cool a room filled with such a pulsating mass of people.

The drinks were flowing, creating a haze that rivaled the smoke machines.

The music was nearly deafening, making it almost impossible to think.

It was almost _too _much. Almost oppressive.

Tony felt like he had been released from a cage.

He had been so caught up in being what he needed to be on the outside that he hadn't been able to just _be. _He had been working so hard to put up the necessary fronts, to say the right words, smile the right smiles, that now, here in this anonymous crowd of self-absorbed partiers, he felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

_Okay, maybe they're not all self-absorbed_, Tony thought, catching Abby's worried eyes as they bobbed like buoys in a sea of humanity.

"Are you okay?" she asked, yelling to be heard.

He flashed her a smile, trying not to chafe at being bridled again. "Just fine, Abbs!"

He held his breath, waiting for her response—hoping it would be the one he wanted.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "But your shoulder's getting all bumped around," she shouted. "Let's go."

He grinned on the inside, toned it down on the outside. "You stay," he yelled back. "I'm going to chat up that pretty blonde at the bar."

Still she hesitated.

He wiggled his arm in the sling. "Don't worry. I'll make her promise to be gentle," he said with a waggling of eyebrows.

Abby rolled her eyes and gave in. "I can catch a ride home with—"

Tony gave her a stern look and cut her off. "I'll meet you at the front doors after the last set, Abby. Or Gibbs will kill me. Have fun!"

She nodded and turned back to face the musicians on stage, her grin getting impossibly wider when her friend slipped her name into the lyrics of the pounding death metal song they were playing. Tony slid through the crowd with practiced ease and headed straight for the blonde, who was swaying drunkenly on her feet.

He almost felt bad as he stepped neatly into her clumsy dance move and made a strangled cry of pain as her arm knocked into his immobilized one. Pretty blue eyes went wide as she took in the sling, but they went smoky as they traveled hazily up to his face.

"I am _so_ sorry," she said, her words slurred.

"My fault," Tony said, giving the sling an unnecessary adjustment with a wince. "Let me buy you a drink and make it up to you?"

The woman grinned but it faded as her less-than-focused eyes landed on the full glass in her hand. She looked back up at him, somewhat sadly. "Oops."

Tony took a breath, keeping the smile pasted on his face as he plucked the drink out of her hand and downed the sickly sweet, fruity concoction. "Problem solved," he said, wishing the drink had been stronger. He was fairly certain he wanted to do this, but a little liquid courage never hurt anything. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he even had time to do what he wanted to do.

Wondering if he even really wanted to do it.

Wondering if when the moment actually came, if he could do it.

But then Brian Landry's lifeless eyes stared at him from inside his own head, begging him for help, pleading with him to make this right.

And Tony knew what he had to do.

* * *

Tony led the woman expertly through the questions, making it seem like he was hanging on her every word of mundane small talk when he was actually getting a name, phone number and place of employment. He also begged her to introduce him to her pretty gaggle of girlfriends, smiling his most charming at them and making sure he made eye contact with each in turn.

He knew at least two of them were sober enough to remember his face.

And then he excused himself and his new conquest, also known as Julia, almost rolling his eyes at the blatant jealousy as he made his ogling—and their little plans—perfectly clear. Julia followed him straight into the men's room with no reservations, and he felt a little less guilty about all this as they stepped into the last stall. He let her press him against the cool tiled wall and kiss him, let her smear plum-colored lipstick on his neck and collar as she attacked him hungrily, seemingly forgetting about his injured arm trapped between them. He kept his free hand carefully on her hip, but he grinned and could have kissed her when she slid her hands under his dark shirt and raked her nails down his back hard enough leave marks.

"Mmmmm," she murmured. "You like that? I know what else you'd like."

She swept her blonde hair back as she sank unabashed to her knees onto the hard floor, and the red-blooded young male in Tony almost let her do what she apparently wanted to do.

Almost.

But as she fumbled drunkenly with his belt buckle, he knew he couldn't take advantage of her.

He grinned—and not for the reason she thought.

He knew he couldn't take advantage of her in _that_ way.

She had barely gotten the belt undone when Tony clamped a hand over his mouth and made a little gagging noise as he dropped to his knees, ironically mirroring her pose. He made use of her bolting to her feet and leaning on the wall to steady herself, and he stuck a finger down his throat and puked into the toilet.

He wasn't really surprised when Julia offered no comfort at first and simply crossed her arms over her chest. "That's a first," she said, affronted.

But Tony gave her his best pathetic, pained smile. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm a federal agent and I got hurt on the job. I took these really strong painkillers..."

It worked.

Julia frowned and knelt beside him as he slumped over the toilet. "You poor thing. What can I do?"

"You don't have to—"

"Nonsense," she said, her eyes glowing. "Anything I can do to help a federal agent, I'll gladly do it."

_I bet you will_, Tony thought. He said, tentatively, as if he might be asking too much, "Find my friend I'm here with?"

Her eyes narrowed, but he said quickly, "She's my coworker. Didn't have anyone else to come with so I felt bad for her." He flicked a glance at Julia's short, black pleated skirt and the spiky bracelets around her wrists and then at his own plain black attire. "I'm not really into this, but she seemed so excited…"

Julia lapped that up—and listened while Tony gave a vague general description of Abby that was utterly useless considering it matched half the women in the club tonight. He added an apology that he had forgotten what she was wearing, even though he knew the neon green top like the back of his hand because he had picked it out for Abby's birthday last year and she wore it often.

"Please find her?" Tony asked, looking as pitiful as a starved puppy. "I just want to go home."

He watched her wide-eyed nod, and then her back as she wobbled to her feet and all but staggered out on her mission. Tony just hoped she would "find" several Abbys before her friends found her.

He rose, slid the unnecessary sling from his arm, pocketed it, and went to the sink, washing his hands and rinsing his mouth as quickly as possible. He did not look at himself in the mirror, for several reasons—the number one reason being his guilt over Ducky's and Gibbs' concern for his "injury." A glance at his watch told him this little charade had cost him precious moments, but he knew it had been necessary. He had to protect himself.

He only wished young Brian Landry had learned to do the same.

* * *

Tony walked down the bar-lined street and lost himself in the milling people outside the most crowded club. He felt anonymous—and therefore safe—as he thought about his cell, slipped discreetly into Abby's coffin-shaped purse, the GPS inside dutifully broadcasting its location. He ignored the cabs until he spotted one old enough to most likely not have a camera waiting inside. He confirmed that as he leaned in, ostensibly to speak with the driver about his destination, a strip-mall with another bar located inside.

He was glad Landry's neighborhood backed up to the shopping center: One fare among a hundred from one bar to the next would blend in; a bar to a specific residence might not.

Especially if police came asking about that specific residence later on.

Tony did not speak during the ride, nor did he tip too little or too much.

It was the Goldilocks method of blending in: Everything had to be juuuust right—just perfectly, boringly ordinary.

Forgettable.

Tony made his way through the dark neighborhood, breathing in the crisp fall air with a smile of anticipation. He could do this. He _would _do this. He had to do this.

Abby was right. This night was going to be unforgettable.

At least for Kenneth Landry.

* * *

Tony stood outside the Landry house, smiling in amusement at the low stone wall obviously not designed to keep intruders out.

Intruders like him.

_Last_ _chance to back out, DiNozzo_, he thought, even as he was breaching the wall surrounding the manicured back lawn. There was no swingset here, no bicycles or skateboards, Tony noticed, not even a tire hanging from the huge tree near the property line.

_Bet McGeek could ID that tree_, he thought, the probie's face popping into his head as he entered the security code given to him by his partner the day before.

_"This ain't base housing at Quantico…"_

"_I was just wondering if you locked up…"_

"_I doubt the poor guy needs to add a break-in to his troubles…"_

Tony entered the house, knowing full well that Landry could have heard him and could be waiting—either with a gun, knife or his Marine Corps training that made the prior options all but afterthoughts.

He didn't care.

Brian's dead eyes, the bruises on his otherwise smooth young skin, all those war movies that spoke to the boy's longing to know his father—those things did nothing but steel Tony's nerve. And break his damned heart. He hadn't lied to Gibbs about his own childhood. Tony knew exactly how it felt to be hurt by the one person who was supposed to love and protect him. He knew the pain of that ultimate betrayal—and he knew the feelings of worthlessness and despair that came with it.

But he had made it through.

Brian hadn't.

So Tony moved through the big house like an extension of the shadows cast by the moonlight streaming through the windows. He made no sound as he slipped silently toward the den, the sliver of light under the door drawing him mothlike to that warm glow. He paused, knowing Landry could be waiting for him. But he also could smell the faint tang of scotch in the air.

He imagined Landry drowning the sorrow of losing his only child—and he heard Gibbs' wholly confusing anguish from the night before—and he turned suddenly to leave, shame making his cheeks burn hot as the July sun.

And as he turned, he came face to face with a photo of Brian hanging on the wall. Tony thought about the place of honor Landry's dead wife's photo held on the mantel in the flowery living room, and rage began a slow burn through his belly as he stared at the boy's smiling face, relegated to a back hall. Tony stepped closer to the picture, studying the boy's clear blue eyes and easily finding the hopelessness in them that countless teachers and so-called friends had missed on a daily basis.

But he didn't blame them.

None of those people had seen the boy's stripped-bare body, lying in a pool of his own blood, the bright red swirling in with the multi-colored bruises like a sick rainbow of human suffering.

Tony, of all people, knew just how easy it was to hide the bruises—and to hide the pain.

So he didn't blame the people who had missed those bruises, overlooked that pain.

Tony blamed the man who had put those bruises there, the man who had caused that pain.

He made up his mind, and with a nod at the boy in the photo, he turned back to the door of the den.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

Tony looked into Landry's wide, furious eyes.

He smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm here for Brian," Tony said softly, backing the stunned man into the room.

"My son is dead," Landry spat, his words sputtering but not slurred.

Tony's gaze flashed to the mostly full bottle on the desk and he was glad Landry wasn't wasted already. He wanted the man to remember every second of this.

"I know that," Tony said calmly. He looked into Landry's eyes. "You killed him."

Landry blinked in shock, and Tony wondered how long it would be before the dots connected in his head and he figured out why the agent was making this late-night visit.

"Now, I know you didn't pull the trigger," Tony said, never taking his eyes off Landry's face. "But you killed him."

Landry pulled himself up to his full height, which put him on level with DiNozzo. "You can't know that. You didn't know him. You have no idea who my son was."

Tony scoffed, but his tone was deadly serious. "And you did?"

"I…" Landry shook his head but he didn't look away. "I did the best I could for my son. You don't know anything about us—or about what led him to do such a terrible thing."

"I think we both know what led him to pull that trigger," Tony countered, taking another step into the room and watching Landry back up another step as well. "Your son made sure of that when he pulled his shirt off to display the damage you did to him."

DiNozzo gave the liar credit for not breaking the stare. "I never laid a hand on my son," he said, indignant.

Tony tipped his head to the side and smiled again.

And then he surged forward, using his only mildly sore right shoulder to crash into the Marine as he reached down and grabbed the man's right wrist. In one smooth movement, DiNozzo had him shoved against a tall cabinet, the agent's weight against his back keeping Landry pinned with his face an inch from his hand, forced into position by a firm grip on his arm.

Landry had no choice but to see the scrapes on his own knuckles.

"Wanna try that again?" DiNozzo asked, his smile skewered by his sharp tone. "This will all go smoother if you don't lie to me."

Landry gave an experimental shove backward and found he couldn't move. There was no fear in his voice, but he asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

Tony paused, knowing he wanted to shove his belt knife—the only weapon he had brought—through Landry's face. But he said, "Nothing more than you did to your son on a regular basis."

The Marine still had his face planted over his red knuckles and he gave them a little wiggle. "You won't get away with this. I'll report you and they'll see the bruises on _your _hands."

DiNozzo shifted slightly, covering Landry's hand with his and displaying the similar scrapes. "Already thought of that," he said. He waved the sling in front of Landry before shoving it back into his pocket. "Had a little sparring match with my boss yesterday and happened to mess up my shoulder, too. Our ME will confirm there's no way I could have hit you with any kind of force."

Landry went completely still. And then he shook his head. "How do you know I hit Brian? How do you know I wasn't sparring with one of my men?"

Tony laughed. "You're a paper-pusher, _Marine_," he added, disdainfully. "The only sparring you do is with cranky secretaries or the occasional jammed Swingline."

DiNozzo could practically feel Landry thinking, trying desperately to find a way to get out of this. "I'll report you," he said again, making Tony roll his eyes. "You'll be investigated."

"Oh, damn," Tony said sarcastically. "I hadn't thought of that. I guess I'll be going now."

DiNozzo released him, half-expecting Landry to attack him. He almost wished he would. But the man just eyed him, breathing slightly harder than normal.

"You leave now and we'll forget this ever happened."

Tony's eyes went dark and he was almost surprised by the intensity of the hate he felt for this pathetic excuse for a father. "I bet it was always easy to just forget about Brian," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You," Landry huffed, pain in his eyes. "You don't get to say my boy's name."

"Your boy," Tony said, letting out a long breath. "You didn't want him, but no one else could lay claim, could they?"

"Of course I wanted him!" Landry exploded, but he did not move. "I loved him. And now that he's gone… I… I feel…"

"Grief is the word you're looking for," Tony supplied. He cocked his head. "And you probably are feeling some pain over this. But that other feeling? The one that's about to choke you right now? That one's guilt, Landry. And you deserve every ounce of it that you're feeling. Probably more."

"So now you're going to beat the shit out of me? And that's going to make everything all better?" Landry backed away slightly, moving slowly toward the desk at the back of the room.

Tony didn't speak—he didn't feel the need to state the obvious, that Brian would never be all better.

"You really think you're going to get away with this?" Landry asked, incredulous. "What happens when I report you?"

DiNozzo's smile was slow, his eyes hard. "Nothing. Because you're not going to report this little incident, Landry."

Landry's eyes went wide before flashing angrily. He sneered. "You're right. Because I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch."

"Hmmm," Tony said, watching the Marine ball his hands into fists—fists he had turned on his son so many times. "You can try. But even after I kick your ass, you won't report it."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Landry yelled, losing his patience—and his grip on his faked bravery. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because," Tony said, his green eyes shining in the dimly lit room, "if you report that the big mean NCIS agent came to beat the shit out of you, you'll be admitting that you beat your son."

"Wha… I don't understand..."

DiNozzo was on him in a second, grasping wrists and spinning the man in a violent parody of a dance. The agent pulled Landry's hands behind him, easily stripping the wedding ring from his finger before delivering a hard blow to his kidney that had the Marine sinking to his knees and gasping.

Tony slipped the ring onto his own finger, on his right hand, and he frowned down at Landry. "See. Told ya you're just a paper-pusher." All traces of amusement left his voice and he barked, "Stand up."

Landry looked up, defiant again. "I'm still a Marine."

Tony rolled his eyes. "And I'm a highly trained federal agent." He smiled. "But you go ahead and put up a fight. It'll make things more interesting."

The man's face fell at DiNozzo's lack of fear, and his eyes flicked to the door.

DiNozzo saw the glance and his smile just got wider. "Go ahead and run. I was also a star college football player, Kenny. I'll tackle you before you get two steps to the door." His grin faded and his tone went hard again. "Now stand up."

Landry stood, glaring the entire time it took to get to his feet. His eyes dropped to the ring on Tony's finger.

DiNozzo held it up to the light. "Unique wedding ring for a guy," he commented, waiting for Landry to charge him as he stared up at the glittering ring. "Onyx, huh? Personally, I'd probably go for a plain gold band, maybe platinum. But I do like these little prongs holding the stones in place."

Landry picked that moment to launch himself at the agent, and DiNozzo brought his hand down in a sweeping arc, punching the Marine hard in the gut. Landry bent over, breathing raggedly as he looked up at Tony.

DiNozzo tipped his head and smiled crookedly. "Paper-pusher," he said, nodding. He lashed out with a quick right jab, accurate as a cruise missile, that slammed into Landry's collarbone. Another punch to the gut was followed by a hard shove, causing Landry to flail backward and crash into his desk.

"Please," Landry wheezed, frightened eyes staring up at DiNozzo.

"Please?" Tony snarled. "Did you ever show mercy when you were kicking the shit out of Brian?"

The sound that came from Landry's mouth was half whimper, half choked cry as he struggled to stand up straight.

Tony suddenly dropped his stance and held his hands out wide. "Fine," he said. "You get a free one. Because I'm feeling like being nice."

"Wha… What?" Landry stammered, stunned and confused by the sudden friendly smile on Tony's face.

"Hit me," Tony offered. "Come on." His eyes went dark again, his mood flip-flopping like a spineless politician. "I know you know how. The bruises on your son's body prove that."

Landry growled as he surged forward, punching DiNozzo in the stomach.

Tony's soft exhalation was the only sign of his pain. He grinned at the shock on Landry's face. "See, here's the thing, Kenny," he said, his tone casual. But his eyes were dark with pain that had nothing to do with the hard ache in his gut. "People who are beaten regularly as children don't feel pain like everyone else does. It's one of the few benefits."

The Marine blinked a few times before smiling tentatively. "I hit you hard enough to leave a mark," he said, visibly gathering bravado. "How are you going to explain that?"

Tony's grin was far brighter as he lifted his shirt, revealing the faint bruising left by Gibbs' sucker punch the day before. "I imagine it'll blend right in," he said. "I told you I was sparring with my boss. He never goes easy on me."

"You son of a—" Landry cried, moving on the offensive again as he dropped his shoulder and tackled DiNozzo, sending both men sprawling onto the floor.

"Right you are," Tony said, ignoring the elbow to his ribs and bucking his body, throwing Landry into the wall. "But my father was more bastard than bitch."

DiNozzo hopped nimbly to his feet and delivered a vicious kick to Landry's abdomen, making the man curl into a ball, instinctively protecting his vital organs. So Tony stepped over him and lashed out with a heavy boot to the back. After several kicks that DiNozzo knew from experience would have the man pissing blood for a few days, Tony stopped, his own breathing bathwater calm compared with Landry's gasping.

"Please," Landry begged again.

DiNozzo kicked him again. "So you can dish it out, but you can't take it?" The next kick landed squarely between the downed man's legs, making him shriek in agony. "Figures."

The agent looked down at the man squirming on the carpet and then at his watch. He still had time before he had to get back to Abby, but as his eyes flicked to the ceiling, bringing memories of Brian's lifeless body on the bloody white carpet, he suddenly needed to get the hell out of the house. He almost laughed at the flashes of bleeding walls that came to him from the Amityville Horror movies, but the smile was quickly gone. The house he was standing in had seen true evil.

"Enjoy what little freedom you have left, Landry," he tossed back over his shoulder, sudden tears for the boy who would never leave, who had never known freedom—or love or safety—blurring his eyes and preventing him from seeing Landry getting to his feet.

Tony never saw the heavy square base of the lamp before it collided with his right side, but he knew the cracking he heard was his own rib and not whatever had hit him. He swallowed his pained cry and turned in time to grab Landry's outstretched hand and pry the Marine's K-Bar from his fingers. DiNozzo brought the blade back expertly and threw it at the doorframe, sighing in relief when the knife buried itself deeply in the wood.

He hadn't come here to kill anyone.

Or get himself killed.

DiNozzo used the grip he still had on Landry to sweep his feet from under him and drop him onto the floor, just as Gibbs had done to him the day before—and countless times before that. Tony kept his iron grip on Landry's wrist and stepped hard on the man's other arm, pinning him to the floor.

He looked down into furious blue eyes and narrowed his own green ones. "That was a bad idea, Staff Sergeant."

Fear flicked through those eyes, but Landry smiled shakily. "How are you gonna explain that broken rib? I heard it crack," he said, triumphantly—as if he weren't lying flat on his back at DiNozzo's mercy.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I felt it crack," he said wryly, smiling even though that rib was sending white-hot pokers of pain through his side with his every breath. "I'm not worried. See, I have these bad reactions to painkillers. Well-known to my team that I get all loopy and really dizzy." Tony pulled the sling from his pocket and waved it over Landry's head before stuffing it back into his pocket. "You even did me a favor, hitting my right side. Poor me, I couldn't even put a hand out to break my fall."

"You thought of everything, didn't you?" Landry asked, his voice small and afraid.

"I put away dirtbags for a living," he said, frowning. "I guess some of that grime rubbed off. But you go ahead and report this. I dare you. It'll make all my hard work tonight worth the effort."

Tony released the man and turned, expecting Landry's attack and easily side-stepping the tackle. He bent over, ignoring the stabbing in his side and grabbing Landry by the back of the shirt to haul him to his feet. The agent dragged his prey across the room, delivering a few more punches that had Landry gasping. Tony spotted a mirror hanging on the far wall and threw Landry into it, but not hard enough to shatter the glass.

DiNozzo's body was pressed against the Marine's again, Landry's cheek mashed up against the mirror. The man couldn't move an inch. But Tony slipped an arm around his throat, pulling him back so they were both looking at their heaving reflections. DiNozzo reached up and yanked the man's shirt open, sending buttons bouncing. Landry's eyes went straight to the unique indentation on his chest that his ring had left from Tony's first punch.

The prong-shaped marks were unmistakable.

"Now do you see why you won't be reporting me, Landry?" DiNozzo breathed into the man's ear. "Your son's body bears those same marks. I spent yesterday afternoon photographing those marks in sickening detail. You breathe a word of what happened here tonight and you'll be admitting that you beat your son."

"So what…" Landry choked out. "What am I supposed to do?"

Tony's smile was positively feral. "Exactly what Brian did every day. You hide the bruises and you don't show the pain."

Landry just stared at the agent's reflection, unable to speak—but not because of DiNozzo's arm around his neck.

When the man finally spoke, the words were not what Tony had been expecting.

"We both know I'm not getting away with this," Landry said, reaching up to put his bruised hand on DiNozzo's wrist. The move was not threatening, and neither were his words. "I know I'm going down for child abuse, and God knows what else. What makes you think I won't take you down with me?"

"I pegged you as a coward from the moment I saw your hands yesterday," Tony said evenly. "You'll fight this with every cowardly lie there is. You'll claim PTSD. You'll blame your wife's death. You'll deny, deny, deny until you're blue in the face because your victim can no longer make accusations. You won't do anything to jeopardize that one in a million chance that you'll get off scott-free. That mark from your ring is your best evidence against me, but you won't show it until you're absolutely certain your worthless ass is going to jail."

Landry went still. "That's why you didn't hit me in the face."

Tony nodded, his eyes shifting from Landry's reflection to his own. "You didn't hit mine, either. Why's that, Kenny? Huh?" His arm tightened across Landry's throat, making the Marine gasp. "Habit? You never hit Brian in the face either."

Landry shoved at DiNozzo's arm, and Tony let him break away, watching with wary eyes as the man moved to stand beside his desk. Landry laughed softly suddenly and shook his head.

"So I can't come right out and accuse you when you come to arrest me," he said, fear flicking through his eyes at that prospect. "And if I wait until I'm convicted, it'll look like a last-ditch ploy for sympathy. Or like I'm fishing for a deal. Either way, no one will believe me."

Tony arched an eyebrow. "I guess you're more the brains than brawn type of Marine, huh?"

Landry wasn't laughing, his eyes dark and serious. "How do you know I won't sing like bird just out of spite?"

Tony smiled. "I don't."

"Then," Landry said, his confusion evident, "why do this? Why take the risk for a kid you didn't even know? A kid you never even met?"

The smile dropped from Tony's face. "I already told you that," he said, his tone threaded with steel—and a touch of pain. "I may have never met Brian, but I knew your son. Hell, Landry, I _was_ your son. With one small difference."

Tony walked to the desk, staying carefully out of Landry's reach as he pulled the ring from his finger and placed it on the desk.

"Now I can fight back."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Time to revisit the content warnings for this story. Please be advised that several scenes might contain possible triggers for some people. Proceed with caution.

* * *

Tony shut the door to the den and leaned his head against it for a few seconds before shoving off and moving quickly out of the house. He knew Landry would obey his order to stay in the den until he was gone—because he had threatened to shoot the man if he didn't. Landry didn't know DiNozzo wasn't armed. But it didn't matter.

Tony had always been a hell of a liar.

He forced his thoughts away from the confrontation—and firmly checked his emotions to some dark corner of his mind for later appraisal—as he retraced his movements back to the club. Because there was still work to do tonight, none of it pleasant. And he really hated lying to Abby.

"Toooonnnnyyyyyy!"

The subject of his thoughts launched herself at him as he made his way toward her after slipping in through the camera-less back of the club. Tony braced himself for the collision, seeing from the slightly glazed eyes that Abby hadn't exactly gone easy on the Red Bull and vodkas that he knew were her drink of choice.

But he didn't mind—even as her body crashed into him, jarring the damaged rib—because he knew it would be infinitely easier to lie to her knowing she probably wouldn't even remember the conversation.

His soft grunt of pain did not go unnoticed, however, and Abby drew back suddenly, guilty green eyes studying Tony's face. He held his breath, wondering if he had overestimated her intoxication—or underestimated her perception. He mostly just wanted to go somewhere dark and quiet to hide, to process the thoughts raging in his head and making his stomach twist sickly.

But Abby just frowned and put a gentle hand on his arm through the sling, carefully avoiding his shoulder. "You are one tough cookie, DiNozzo," she said, her words slightly slurred. There was sadness in her eyes. "You know that?"

Tony grinned despite being uncomfortable with the concern glowing in that cool green gaze. "And you are one pretty lady, pretty lady," he returned, looping his good arm around the scientist and leading her to the door. "Come on. I'll take you home."

The concern was suddenly gone, and Tony found Abby looking at him in a way she rarely did—except when she was rip-roaring drunk. "I wanna stay with you," she said, her smoky voice almost a whisper.

Tony ignored his body's response to her sultry words, and he looked down at her as they walked toward the car. "Okay," he said, shaking his head when her mouth curved upward in a devious little smile. "But only because my bathroom's closer to my bed than yours is to your coffin."

The pout was not unexpected, but her words were. "Come on, Tony," she said, sliding into the car and smoothing her short skirt over pale thighs. "You've never slept with a friend before?"

"Abby," he said, shutting the door and moving around the car. Once settled behind the wheel, he continued, "I've slept with _you_ before."

The Goth rolled her eyes, and then put a hand on the door handle as if it had made her dizzy. "We've slept together, Tony," she said, "but we didn't actually—"

"I know," Tony said softly, pulling the car into the light late-night traffic. "Because you said you didn't want to ruin what we have. And I agreed."

He cast a look at his passenger and saw the resigned disappointment in her eyes. Still, he said, "I still do."

They were silent for a few moments, but then Abby was Abby again, bouncing and twisting in her seat, her green eyes sparkling with happiness. "Did you hear when Scotty put my name in the lyrics of 'Dead Dolls in Bathroom Stalls'?" she asked, barely waiting for Tony's nod. "I mean, he knows it's my absolute favorite song in the whole world. I even like it better than anything on the new Plastic Death album, and there is some really good stuff on there. Especially—oh, hey, whatever happened with you and blondie?"

Tony blinked, surprised his highly intoxicated friend had remembered. And then he felt guilty by how relieved it made him feel.

"Come on, Tony," Abby said. "You're not shy. And neither is she, apparently. I saw her follow you into the men's room, which is kind of odd—and not to mention kind of skanky. What gives, DiNozzo? Despite all your talk, I know you don't often go for the straight-up slutty types."

Tony was less worried about Abby's views on his taste in women than what she might have seen later. Had she seen Julia leaving the restroom? Had she seen _him_ leaving?

He realized that Abby, even in her drunken haze, was still waiting for an answer.

"The uh, slutty types, tend to know what they're doing," he said, not feeling entirely awkward considering they often had rather explicit conversations, talked about things that would make McGee's cheeks flame bright red—and send Kate running for the confessional. "I needed a good, long distraction, and she gave me one."

"Oh," was all Abby said.

Tony cast a sidelong glance at her, expecting more than that one word. He found her biting her lip and looking at him with worry in her eyes.

He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Don't worry, Abbs. I was totally safe about—"

"DiNozzo."

She spoke his name as sharply as Gibbs at his angriest.

Tony bit back a sigh as he pulled into the parking garage. He turned off the car and turned to stare at Abby's scrunched up face. "Usually Gibbs starts yelling after he says my name like that."

"This isn't funny, DiNozzo," Abby said, hauling herself out of the car and stumbling on her platform boots. She eyed the amused glint in Tony's eyes and wagged a finger at him. "Don't you dare laugh. This is serious."

"Seriously funny," Tony returned, looping his good arm around her and feeling her go as stiff as the drinks she'd had that night. "Okay, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth but then clamped it shut, leaning heavily against Tony's side. He tightened his grip on her, and she said, "I need to puke."

Tony breathed a silent sigh of relief—even though his right side was on fire and he thought puking sounded just dandy, too. He was hoping he could let her throw up, put her to bed and then get on with the last unpleasant detail of his busy night.

But then Abby continued.

"And then we need to talk, mister."

* * *

About ten minutes later, Tony sat on the edge of his bathtub, holding Abby's raven hair back as she sat on her heels on the cold tile floor and threw up.

" 'M sorry," she mumbled, picking her head up and squinting—and making Tony wonder how many of him she was seeing. "You know I don't usually…"

She trailed off, spitting into the bowl one last time before reaching up to flush the toilet.

"I know," Tony said, rubbing his left hand down her back as she crawled toward him and rested her head against his thigh. "It's been, what? Over a year since you were last in here, spouting like a geyser?"

He felt her smile against his leg so he reached down and put a hand under her arm, hauling her gently to her feet. She swayed and then collapsed against his chest, her arms snaking around him as she fought to keep her balance.

Tony couldn't help the sharp hiss of pain as her arm brushed the broken rib.

Abby pulled back, her bloodshot eyes wide as she stared up at the grimace on his face. She ran her hand down his arm, still protected by the sling, and he was glad she didn't seem to realize that she hadn't even touched his shoulder.

"So sorry, Tony," she whispered, resting against him again, much more gently this time. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay, Abby," Tony said, his lips against her hair. "Hmmm?" he asked when she mumbled something into his chest that he couldn't quite make out.

"He didn't mean to hurt you, either," she said again, pulling back and looking up into his eyes. "Gibbs would never hurt you on purpose."

Inside, Tony was cursing the woman's perception—because he was still feeling raw and on edge from his confrontation with Landry and the last thing he wanted was to have a long, deep conversation with Abby about his shitty childhood, of which she already knew most of the gory details. But on the outside, Tony just smiled softly. "Ah. I see why you tied one on tonight. Gathering liquid courage, Abbs?"

A blush crept along her paler-than-usual cheeks, but her eyes were serious. "I'm worried about you. I know you see Gibbs as some strange sort of a substitute father figure, Tony. And after the Landry case—I saw the photos you took, the photos of Brian's bruised body. I know what you've told me about your own father hurting you… So I know how these kinds of things upset you—and that's without Gibbs hurting you. Gibbs, who's like a father—"

"Abby," Tony cut into her drunken ramble. His tone was a bit sharper than he had intended, thanks to the thoughts running through his head. _Yeah, he is like my father sometimes. Like when he smacks me, threatens to break my fingers, or refuses to say a simple "good job" when it's due, when he knows it's what I really want to hear from him. _But then he felt guilty—both for the look in Abby's eyes and for his thoughts, because he knew that Gibbs was a lot of things, but he wasn't intentionally cruel. Tony knew Gibbs had never and would never hurt him just for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Tony shook off the thoughts and stopped Abby halfway down the hall by putting a hand on her shoulder. He barely stopped himself from lifting his right hand, sling and all, to touch her face. "I know Gibbs didn't mean to do it," he said, holding her eyes until she nodded. He allowed a small smile. "How did you know he did it?"

She smiled back, but it was sadly. "When I got here earlier, he had the oh-so-rare guilty-Gibbs look all over his face. I've only seen it a couple of times, but I can always recognize it. I asked him about it and he said he felt bad for hurting you."

Tony nodded, unsure what to say to that. But then Abby broke into a wide yawn, and he took her arm again. "Come on. Let's find you something to sleep in." He grinned. "Something _without_ spikes and chains."

* * *

Later, Tony stood watching Abby sleep. He knew that under the thick comforter on his bed, the Goth was wearing only panties and one of his Ohio State t-shirts, and he almost wished he had taken her up on her offer. It would have eased the tense knot in his chest, given him a temporary reprieve from the sick feeling in his stomach. But he also knew he would hate himself more in the morning if he had.

Besides, there was more than one way to get rid of the tightness, the slimy sickness, the raging buzzing in his head.

It had always worked for him as a child. Even as a young child, Tony knew that a quick punch to the wall would bring instant relief to the mental churning. He knew that no matter how he hurt himself, even if it was just poking at the bruises inflicted by his father's hands, it would always ease the tearing in his tattered soul. He also knew it wasn't exactly healthy, but it didn't really matter.

You do what you have to do to survive.

And fortunately—or unfortunately, a shrink would probably say—you get better at it. Tony the child had learned to find the studs in the walls before punching, both because holes in the walls were hard to explain and because it simply hurt more when his small fist collided with solid wood instead of weak drywall. He had learned to punch with his left hand, because it was easier to hide the damage to his non-dominant hand—or to use both hands for daily tasks so no one would question his switching back and forth if he happened to forget.

He also learned not to expect sympathy should someone happen to notice. Tony had learned that the hard way, several weeks after his mother's death, when the cast came off his broken arm. All the staff who had helped him, even the teacher who had been so kind, seemed to forget about Tony once he no longer needed help with things that required two hands. And the grieving little boy, who had not gotten one drop of sympathy from his father, over the arm or his mother's tragic death, knew he wanted that feeling back, needed to know someone cared that he was still alive. That while his mother might have died, broken and bleeding in that horrible mess of a car, Tony had survived.

Even if there were days he wasn't entirely sure he had.

So little Tony, at the end of his forgotten ninth birthday, had walked out to his father's large garage and stared at the shiny, expensive cars. He had walked around them, ignoring his reflection so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the tears on his cheeks, and he picked the fastest-looking one, a red one way in the back, and opened the door.

And then he placed his hand inside and slammed it shut.

Tony flexed that hand, his left, as he remembered collapsing onto the spotless garage floor and wailing in perfect agony. He wasn't sure how long he lay there shrieking, crying and screaming, holding the broken little limb to his chest and praying someone would come find him, come scoop him up and make the pain go away.

No one did.

Finally, after successfully getting to his feet without throwing up, little Tony had staggered his way back into the house, only to find it empty.

Almost.

"_I sent the staff home before one of them could hear your little stunt."_

_Tony turned, still clutching his badly broken hand against his body, and stared up at his father. "Help me," he whispered, tears sticking in his eyelashes before spilling down his cheeks. _

_The boy closed his eyes and waited for the blow as his father drew back a hand. _

_It never came. _

_Tony opened tear-swollen eyes to find his father looking at his bloody hand with disgust. He just wanted the man to pick him up, kiss away his tears and hold him until the pain went away. _

"_I'll take to you to the hospital," his father said, his eyes narrowing on his son's red face. "This time. You do this shit again and you'll just have to suffer. You hear me?"_

_Tony couldn't believe his ears. But he also wasn't stupid. "Yes, sir."_

_The big man turned and walked away, leaving Tony to hurry after him, whimpering as the movement sent burning pain racing like wildfire along his arm. "Daddy—"_

"_Go to bed," the man snapped. "I'll take you in the morning. Tonight, you learn a very important lesson, Anthony."_

"_But Daddy," Tony cried, his control slipping briefly. "It hurts, Daddy."_

_His father turned back, his calculating eyes taking in none of his son's suffering. "Then I guess it'll be an easy lesson to learn, won't it?"_

As it turns out, Tony learned two important lessons that pain-filled night. The first was how little his father cared about him and the second was that if you were going to break a hand, damaging the non-dominant one was the better choice. It had also cemented his intense dislike of hospitals because that trip had been his most painful, by far. And it was not because of his hand. His father had barely touched him, forcing his son to sit in a hard plastic chair while other children were cradled close to their parents. And when Tony had thrown up during the x-rays, his father's mock comforting hand on the back of his neck had been more like a vice. Colorful casting tape was dismissed as childish in favor of plain white and an order to keep it clean—or else.

There had been no stop on the way home for ice cream or pizza. The bottle of pain pills had gone straight into the trash and no one tucked the boy in that night. He was too little to know to prop up the injured arm on a pillow and so had lain curled in bed, the cast clutched to his chest as he cried hard enough choke himself before finally falling into an exhausted sleep.

Tony watched Abby sleep now, here in the present, and he knew from her deep, even breathing that he could probably set about his little task without waking her. He moved silently through his apartment, quickly averting his eyes from his mother's photo on the bookshelf in the living room.

"Sorry, Mom," he whispered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for this time.

Tony walked into the kitchen, the farthest he could get from where Abby lay sleeping in his bed, and he put his hand on the doorframe, giving an experimental little shove and finding it sturdy under his grasp. He had already thought about all the angles and mechanics of this, knowing he needed to force the shoulder out through the back of the joint to mimic the sudden stop when Gibbs had grabbed his arm in the ring. He knew that motion would be indistinguishable from the sudden stop of his hand coming in contact with the doorframe. It was all made easier by the fact that he had dislocated the shoulder in similar fashion on the football field with a stiff arm gone wrong.

So Tony simply held his breath, straightened his arm stiffly, reared back as far as possible and slammed his outstretched hand into the doorframe.

The joint slid out with the ease of one stretched by recurrent dislocations.

"Thanks, Dad," Tony breathed, leaning back against the wall and clutching the shoulder while trying to calm himself. Not only was the pain searing and intense, but the shoulder also had that sickening feel of instability, like a loose tooth still too painful to be pulled, and Tony closed his eyes against the all-too-familiar sensations. He knew the joint hadn't reset itself back into its proper position so he reached up and fixed that little problem with no more than a sharp intake of breath.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, eyes tightly closed as he breathed through the pain.

And when he opened them to find Abby staring at him with wide eyes, he couldn't help wondering just how long she had been standing there, too.


	14. Chapter 14

"Tony?"

The agent couldn't read the emotions in his own whispered name—and that scared him more than anything. He had no idea what she had seen, but he did know that if she had watched him dislocate his own shoulder, he would simply tell her everything. He had done what he needed to do tonight. But there was no way in hell he would ask Abby to lie for him.

"Ow," was all he said, and he kicked himself for using Abby's inherent comforting nature to both gauge her reaction and perhaps soften the blow of whatever was to come.

Tony had a feeling it was going to hurt a lot more than the dislocation.

Abby moved slowly to his side and crouched down next to him. Luminous green eyes shone in the moonlight streaming through the glass balcony doors. "Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Tony let out a long breath, wincing at the end of it. He didn't cover the wince and he didn't have to fake the exhaustion in his words. "Not really."

"You shouldn't be up without your sling, Tony," Abby admonished lightly.

He couldn't quite tell if she was fishing, trying to see if he was lying. But then he shook off that thought—Abby was nothing if not direct. He couldn't see her playing games like this, and he breathed a half-sigh of relief, knowing she hadn't seen his little stunt.

"I shouldn't be up at all," Tony said wearily, his hand moving from his shoulder down to the broken rib. "And I shouldn't take stupid painkillers, either."

Abby's brow furrowed, and she reached out and put her hand on his good arm. "What happened?"

"My shoulder was killing me, and I couldn't sleep so I took the pills Ducky gave me," Tony said, hating himself for the lies and knowing he wasn't done yet—had barely gotten started. "They made me sick so I came out to get some water." He ducked his head, but he didn't have to fake the shame he felt burning his cheeks. "I got dizzy and bumped into the table. Ended up down here."

"That must have been what woke me up," Abby said, nodding. She smiled a tiny little smile. "And then I had to take a minute to figure out where I was."

Tony grinned despite his pain. "Do you often wake up pantsless in strange beds, Miss Sciuto?"

Abby drew back to punch him but stopped short. She sighed. "I'm never drinking again."

"You mean until next weekend," Tony countered with a smile. He pushed himself to his feet, biting his lip to keep from moaning in pain—both from the shoulder and the cracked rib.

Abby didn't even wait for him to sway on his feet before she wrapped her arms around him. "Hey," she said. "Little warning first? Your caretaker is still piss-drunk and needs an extra few seconds to process."

She turned and wiggled under his left arm, looping an arm around his waist to help him into the bedroom.

"I bet your world is spinning just as much as mine right now," Tony teased when Abby had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself.

"Ya want me to call Gibbs?" she asked helpfully.

Tony snorted a laugh that turned into a soft gasp. "No," he said. "Please no."

Abby lowered him onto the side of his bed, but she stayed crouched in front of him, making no motion to move. She looked into his eyes with sadness and worry in her own. "Are you two really okay?" she asked, putting a finger to his lips to stop the automatic response. "Gibbs feels really guilty for hurting you, and I know all this has upset you. I just need you to promise me that everything's going to be okay."

_No can do, Abby-roo_, Tony thought, making himself wonder if he had actually downed the bottle of pain pills without realizing it. But the look on Abby's face sobered him completely. "We're fine, Abby," Tony said sincerely. "I know he didn't do it on purpose, and he'll be back to smacking me in the head in no time. Okay?"

She bit her lip and stared back, but finally gave in with a smile. "Yeah. Okay," she said, nodding and standing. She moved to the dresser in the corner of the room and pulled out a t-shirt. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Tony froze, staring at the shirt in her hand—and realizing he would have to take off the black buttondown he was still wearing. The scientist might still be a little drunk and the lighting in the bedroom was dim, but there was no way she wouldn't see the bruising on his side from Landry's lamp.

"I just want to sleep," Tony said as he started to pull his feet up to lie down.

Abby scanned his attire with a critical eye and shook her head. "That's soooooo not going to be comfortable, Tony. Let me help you."

He clamped his mouth shut, knowing there was no arguing when the Goth was in Nurse-Abby mode. He did give her a look when she knelt in front of him and started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"I have several naughty thoughts running through my head right now," Tony said, grinning. "Want me to share?"

Abby rolled her eyes. "You're the one who turned me down, mister," she said, going suddenly still. She nodded. "Thank you. You're a really good friend, Tony."

_Not really,_ Tony thought, but he smiled back anyway. "So are you, Abbs. Taking pity on poor injured—"

"Holy _hell_, DiNozzo!" Abby cried upon pulling the shirt away to reveal the deep bruising on the agent's right side.

He watched her face carefully as she studied the damage, and he flinched when her cool fingers brushed his purpled skin. He could only hope the squared edge of his kitchen table looked enough like the base of Landry's lamp. If anyone would spot the difference, it would be forensics specialist Abby Sciuto.

"You 'bumped' into the table, Anthony?" she asked, her eyes wide.

And Tony felt his blood go cold.

Abby shook her head and glared at him. "Fell into the table, _crashed_ into it, but not 'bumped,' for hell's sake." She laid her hand flat against his side, gently covering the knot of swelling and no doubt measuring it in her head. "That's not a bump, DiNozzo. That's probably a broken rib. And why the hell didn't you tell me? And why the hell were you going to hide it from me? I swear, sometimes you're—"

"Abby."

She frowned hard and rubbed her hands over her face. "You need to take better care of yourself," she said softly, looking up into his eyes. "I know no one ever did it for you, but you have to know that _I will._ You're my best friend, okay? Let me take care of you."

Tony felt something squeeze hard inside his chest at her words, something he hadn't felt in a really long time. He nodded and pulled his hand into his sleeve, holding it out to her. She smiled and helped him pull out of the shirt, smiling when he sat perfectly still as she eased the sleeve carefully down his right arm. He saw her eyes catch the bruising on his belly.

"I am going to kill Gibbs," she said, and he could practically see her running through all the ways to do that without getting caught.

"Did you see his face, Abbs?" Tony asked, knowing she had seen the damage to their boss's mouth from his punch.

"Yes," she said succinctly. "You two are like boys on the playground."

"Exactly," he said, catching her eye and conveying the deeper meaning.

_Gibbs nothing like my father. _

* * *

Tony awoke to the pleasant sensation of a warm body tucked against his side. That the body belonged to Abby didn't diminish the pleasure at all. He was glad it was someone familiar instead of an anonymous link in the chain of his meaningless hookups. Abby was the one person who touched him for no other reason than to be near him, to make him feel loved, with no other motives and without asking anything in return.

Tony opened his eyes to the rather unpleasant sight of Gibbs standing in his doorway, staring at Abby's half-clad body wrapped around his senior agent.

"Uh, hi Boss," Tony whispered, his cheeks bright red.

"I came for her," Gibbs said, pointing to the mop of black hair hiding Abby's face.

"That's not entirely reassuring," Tony said, wondering if he should try to get up and run. Seeing that Gibbs was blocking the only exit, he decided to stay put. At least he had Abby as a temporary shield. "Did I forget to lock the door? Because I usually—"

"Picked it," Gibbs said. "You need better locks."

Tony could only nod. And wait.

"Pacci's got a case," Gibbs said. "Needs her."

"Ah," Tony said, suddenly panicking that he had forgotten to retrieve his cell from Abby's bag last night. Suddenly panicking that Gibbs had taken one look at him and seen everything he had done last night. "You could've called," he ventured.

Gibbs pointed to the cell on the nightstand. "You could've answered."

"Oh," Tony said, reaching over and grabbing his phone. He flipped it open and blushed brighter. "It's on silent. I thought I had it on vibrate last night, you know, because the club was so loud, but—"

"Tony."

"Yeah, sorry Boss."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "If I'm gonna yell at anyone for Rule No. 3, it'll be Abby. You're not on call this weekend, DiNozzo."

"You never yell at me, Bossman," Abby mumbled into Tony's chest. She swept her black hair back and sat up with a giant yawn and a wince at the bright light streaming through the window. "But if you do, can you do that quiet 'I'm disappointed in you, Abbs' thing that you do? I've got a bit of a headache."

"There's Tylenol in the bathroom," Tony said with a slight smile, watching Abby's face and seeing the exact moment she realized what she was wearing.

Or rather, what she wasn't wearing.

Tony smothered a grin as she got up and made her way across the room, head held high the whole way. She paused by the door and turned back, hiking up her chin and ignoring her bare legs and the t-shirt barely covering her.

"You stay put until I get back," she ordered. Then her hands came up in a flurry of movement that made Gibbs grin.

"Care to share?" Tony asked once the door was firmly closed. And even though he felt awkward lying flat on his back in his bed with his boss staring at him, he stayed put, knowing he couldn't get up without alerting Gibbs to his worsened condition.

"Said if she finds your body, they'll never find mine," Gibbs said, obviously amused.

Tony nodded. "Subtle."

"As a Mac truck," Gibbs agreed, turning for the door. "Don't get up on my account, DiNozzo. Look like you had a rough night, too."


	15. Chapter 15

Gibbs waited for Abby in Tony's living room, and he found himself drawn to the photo of his agent's mother. Judging from her ethereal beauty, Gibbs figured plenty of men had been drawn to the real, live woman.

"She hurt him too, you know."

Gibbs turned to find Abby standing behind him, her eyes pained. "When she was sober, she was amazing. She was his everything. But she was a mean drunk. He probably spent more time taking care of her than she did him."

Gibbs frowned, his look saying, "Point?"

But they both knew better.

So Gibbs just pressed a kiss to Abby's temple. "I'll take care of him, Abbs."

She smiled, but she still looked concerned. "Watch him, Gibbs. The painkillers are making him really dizzy again." She brought up her hands and filled him in on Tony's most recent injury.

Tony came into the room, dressed in plaid lounge pants and a t-shirt, just in time to get a light hug and a rushed goodbye from the scientist, who was out the door in a flash of black fabric and silver chains.

Tony lifted his left hand and signed a few random letters. "What was that about?" he asked.

"She's worried about you."

Tony rolled his eyes. "I don't need to know sign language to know that, Gibbs."

"She told me to stay."

"You take orders from Abby now?"

Gibbs smiled. "She can kill me without leaving a trace."

"Boss, I—"

"Hey," Gibbs cut in. "I want to."

Tony just raised an eyebrow.

Gibbs gave a half-shrug and said, "Can't have my senior agent breaking any more ribs because he's too stubborn to take help when it's offered."

Tony eyed him dubiously, but Gibbs couldn't tell if he was upset that Abby had spilled about his injury. "I'm just gonna sit here all day."

"More football?" Gibbs asked, settling into the comfortable chair and grabbing the remote.

Tony nodded slowly but didn't move. "No basement. No boat," he said, watching Gibbs shrug and flip to the pre-game show on ESPN. Tony cocked his head to the side. "No bourbon, either."

"No problem," Gibbs said. "You've got beer."

Gibbs watched his agent nod again and move stiffly to sit on the couch. He turned back to the TV but kept his attention on Tony, who sat hunched forward, his face pale with the pain in his shoulder and side. He pretended not to notice when Tony eased down and wrangled his battered body into a horizontal position with a shuddery sigh.

"You have fun last night?"

"Mmmmm," Tony said, flicking a glance at Gibbs as if surprised by the question.

It struck Gibbs as odd, too. Usually, he didn't have to ask about Tony's weekends because he generally got the full run-down without prompting.

But then Tony said, "Never thought I'd rather spar with you than my kitchen table."

Gibbs cracked a grin, but his eyes were concerned as he watched Tony's hand settle gently against his side. "You break that rib or just bruise it?"

Tony shrugged—and then followed it with a little grunt of pain. "Beats me," he said, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen. "Hurts like hell either way."

"On the bright side," Gibbs said teasingly, "you can ask the doctor about it tomorrow when you go for your shoulder." He didn't wait for a response and said, "Painkillers don't work unless you take 'em. They in the kitchen?"

Gibbs didn't wait this time, either. He simply got up, found the bottle by the sink and returned to place it and a glass of water on the coffee table within Tony's reach. He even moved to the bookcase to peruse the titles with his back to his agent, letting Tony down the pills without an audience. Gibbs wasn't sure why he did it, but he just somehow knew he should.

Unfortunately, Tony misread the gesture and set the glass down with a slight thunk. "I heard what Abby told you about her," he said, nodding at the photo Gibbs realized he thought he'd been staring at. "She could be a mean drunk, when she really got going."

Gibbs took a breath and then turned wordlessly, wondering why he couldn't just apologize for talking about him behind his back—or for his horrific childhood.

"In a way, she was worse than him," Tony said quietly, his left arm tucked under his head as he stared at the ceiling. "With him, I knew what to expect. But with her, well, she was a grab bag. I try not to remember her as she was when she was falling-down drunk, dressing me in sailor suits and screaming at me to stand up straighter, grabbing me by the neck when my definition of straighter didn't quite match hers. Or when she would make promises to me while wasted and then change her mind once she sobered up. That's how I ended up at clogging camp instead of the—"

Tony stopped, his eyes moving down from the ceiling to meet Gibbs'.

"You weren't looking at the photo," he said, wincing. "Ah, sorry. I know you don't care about my crappy childhood. I'll shut up now."

"Tony," Gibbs said, watching the redness creep across his agent's face. "I'll listen if you want to talk."

Tony's eyes flew open and he started to sit up, until the pain made that a bad idea. "Uh, thanks," he said, his eyes slipping closed again. "But I know talking's not really your thing."

"Didn't say _I_ would be doing the talking, DiNozzo," Gibbs said lightly, a small smile on his face. His tone was serious when he continued, "But I mean it." Gibbs didn't have to say what that "it" was again; he knew Tony knew.

Whether Tony actually took him up on that offer was an entirely different story, Gibbs thought as he sank into the chair again just as the kickoff started the first game. They watched the first quarter in silence, Gibbs noting that Tony didn't flip channels among the professional football games as he had with the college ones the day before.

It made Gibbs wonder why. And what was different today.

And then he looked over and saw that his charge was sound asleep, the remote resting on his chest as he breathed slowly and evenly. Gibbs couldn't stop the soft smile that touched his lips any more than he could stop the flood of memories, his daughter's soft breathing replacing his agent's, "My Little Pony" movies replacing the football.

"_Maybe we should have another one."_

_Jethro jumped. And then he grinned, feeling his lovely wife wrap her arm around his waist as she laid her head on his shoulder and watched their daughter sleep. _

"_There are Marines with decades of experience who can't sneak up on me," he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "How exactly do you manage it?"_

_She laughed, the musical sound tinkling like wind chimes. "Because I don't weigh two hundred pounds or smell like the bottom of a foot locker."_

_Jethro laughed, but he reached down and tipped her face up to his. "You mean it?"_

"_I didn't weigh two hundred pounds when I was pregnant with her. And I certainly don't smell—"_

"_Shan."_

_Her grin was sheepish, but her eyes were shining. "I don't know. Maybe." _

"_Five years is a big difference between siblings," he said, not dismissing the idea but evaluating it. _

"_Yeah," she said, not agreeing or disagreeing. The grin remained as she poked her husband's shoulder. "But you were an only child and look how you turned out." _

_He gave her a mock-glare—one she never fell for. And then he saw the tears shining in her eyes. "Hey," he said gently. "I didn't say no." _

_She shook her head and blinked back the tears. _

"_What is it?" he asked, watching his wife's eyes linger on their child and wondering what the connection was. _

"_Oh, it's probably nothing," she said unconvincingly. _

_And even back then, Gibbs could never quite let mysteries lie. "You almost started crying looking at our girl," he said firmly. "Spill, Shannon."_

_Her eyes went wide. "Oh, no. It's not Kelly. It's this new boy in one of the classes I sub for," she said, biting her lip and heading out onto the back porch. _

_He followed, watching her sink into her favorite chair and stare out at the summer night. "I always knew you'd leave me for a younger man," he joked, needing to erase the lines of tension on her pretty face. _

_She giggled and tossed a throw pillow at his head with surprising accuracy. "I love your sense of humor, you know that?" _

_He smiled, waiting. _

"_He's a Marine brat," she said, picking at the hem of her sundress. "Father just transferred in from… somewhere. I don't remember."_

_She stopped, huffing out a breath and looking up with pain in her eyes. "They're hurting him, Jethro. I know they are. And I can't do anything about it. But he comes in with new bruises every day—and new stories about how he got them."_

"_He's a boy, Shan," Jethro said gently. "Little boys hurt themselves all the time."_

_She was already shaking her head. "No. He's being abused," she said. "And it's not all physical. I tried to give him a hug yesterday after some of the other boys were bullying him and made him cry. Well, he didn't come crying to me—I watched him go curl up under the picnic table. He was shaking so hard… And then when I put my arms around him, he went all stiff and stopped immediately. He looked up at me and asked what I was doing. I told him I was giving him a hug and the poor thing just looked mystified. I was just trying to get him to calm down so I put my hand on his back…"_

_Jethro pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and watched her dab at her eyes. "And?" he asked softly, knowing what she was going to say. _

"_He made this horrible, choked little sound and bolted. I didn't want to hurt him so I let him go," she said, taking a deep breath. "And then I went straight to the principal and waited while she called social services."_

_She wiped at her eyes some more, and then looked up and frowned. "I know. You don't have to say it," she said, smiling sadly. "I did everything I could, and it's out of my hands now. Let the system take care of him, and blah blah blah."_

_He smiled back. "So were you thinking about having another or adopting one?" he asked, watching her blink at his perception. _

"_I don't know," she said honestly. "I know we can't save this boy, but my God, Jethro. What kind of a person could hurt their own child?"_

Gibbs hadn't had an answer for her then, and if she were alive now, he still wouldn't. He knew Shannon had always felt like she had let that boy down, even though she had done everything she could. As Gibbs laid a blanket over his sleeping agent—a man who shared the pain of that anonymous little boy years before—he could almost feel Shannon's radiant smile shining down on him.

* * *

Gibbs was no stranger to waking up in a cold sweat, shaking and gasping—and rarely, being awakened by his own screams. It was par for the course for several categories he fit into: law enforcement, Marine, father, someone who had lost loved ones violently.

But when Gibbs jerked awake in his agent's living room later that afternoon, he realized there was another whole level to the terror of the nightmares suffered by those who had been abused.

Tony's sharp cry was more shriek than scream, but it was silenced before Gibbs could even process the sound, or the stark terror in the man's eyes as he blinked awake and realized where he was—and whom he was with.

More shocking than anything, though, was the ease with which Tony shrugged off the nightmare and gave a sheepish grin. "And just when I thought this couldn't get any more awkward," he said, smiling and shaking his head. "At least it was the one where the psycho crazy chick chasing me is pretty hot."

Gibbs just eyed him warily, suddenly doubting every word the agent had ever said to him. DiNozzo was good undercover; Gibbs knew that. But he didn't know just how fast Tony could flip the switch—and lie so convincingly.

"Bullshit, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his hard tone making Tony blink in surprise.

But Tony just did it again. "Okay, you got me," he said with a just slightly too-bright smile. "It was the one where Ducky's gone quackers and is autopsying me while I'm still alive."

"Nice try," Gibbs said. "But that's Abby's nightmare."

"Heh. Did she tell you the end? Where she's lying there and—"

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

"If you don't want to tell me about it, you don't have to. And you don't have to lie about it," Gibbs said, his tone as gentle as it had been with Shannon all those years before. "And you don't have to pretend it didn't bother you."

Tony regarded him silently, and then he seemed to make up his mind about something. "You know what was harder than taking the beatings?"

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow—because he hadn't expected Tony to give in and talk about the nightmares, much less about his abuse.

Tony smiled plastically and shook his head. "Pretending everything was fine afterward," he said, sounding disgusted. "Do you have any idea how many parent-teacher conferences I sat through, trying to sit up straight even though my back was on fire?"

Gibbs glanced over, watching Tony sit ramrod straight and fiddle with the sling on his arm. It made Gibbs sick that Tony had spent the weekend downplaying his pain, trying to hide it not so some teacher wouldn't notice but because he didn't want his boss to feel guilty. Tony should have known better.

Gibbs felt guilty anyway.

But then Tony was speaking again, his tone taking on that faraway quality he used when reciting facts and figures from bad crime scenes. "You think I'm a good liar now? I had a lot of practice back then. I mean, I somehow pulled off wearing long-sleeved shirts in the middle of summer—because it was easier than explaining the purple fingerprints on my wrists." Tony's eyes slipped closed, and Gibbs thought he was done talking.

"The man has a hell of a grip," Tony said softly, his voice belying only a fraction of his pain. "In my nightmares, my father always has talons instead of fingers."

A light shudder than through Gibbs' own body at that—both at the image of that nightmare and because he somehow just knew a young Tony had woken up from that horrible dream with no one to turn to for comfort but its hateful subject.

Gibbs had no idea what to say. There was an awkward silence, and Gibbs could practically hear Tony trying to backpedal in his head—and likely cursing the drugs that had broken his own iron grip on his otherwise flawless control. So Gibbs just got up and gave the younger man's shoulder a quick squeeze before walking out of the room to give him some space.

He hoped Tony wouldn't misread the gesture, but honestly, Gibbs needed to walk away. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, fighting the urge to slam a fist into the wall. He closed his eyes and willed his hands to unclench, wondering how long it would take his contacts to find Anthony DiNozzo Senior in New York.

Gibbs would easily—gladly—take the man apart for what he had done to his son.


	16. Chapter 16

Gibbs found Tony staring at him somewhere in the middle of the fourth quarter of the game they had settled in to watch.

"You need something?" he asked—mildly, because he knew Tony was a lot like him when it came to asking for help.

"Just to say thanks," he said sincerely. "You didn't have to stay, but I appreciate it."

"Someone had to make sure you don't fall over and break your neck," Gibbs said gruffly.

"Yeah," Tony agreed with a sheepish smile. "But you could have appointed McGee. Or Kate," he added with a little shudder.

"You afraid of her playing nursemaid?" Gibbs asked, amused.

But Tony just said, "She's a little too perceptive sometimes." He winced. "Not that you're not. Not _too_ perceptive, but, you know… I mean—"

"Don't worry about it. I know it's just the painkillers talking." He studied his agent's face. "How are you feeling?" he asked, realizing he had been so caught up in Tony's painful past that he had forgotten about his current injuries. It was a neat little trick—one Gibbs figured he should remember for the next time he had something to hide.

"I'm okay," he said, and Gibbs recognized it as Tony-speak for _"It hurts like the devil but dear ol' Satan will be strapping on ice skates before I admit it."_

So Gibbs got up without a word and went to the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers until he found what he needed to assemble the bags of groceries he'd brought into his favorite comfort food, a stew he remembered making with his grandmother. He had also made it with Shannon and Kelly, but he pushed aside those memories because he could handle only so many in so short a period of time.

But the memories came anyway, specifically Shannon tossing sliced carrots across the kitchen, sinking them in the pot like nice three-pointers. Gibbs smiled, seeing her sheepish grin as water splashed all over the stove when she started chucking potatoes.

"Wow."

Gibbs turned to find Tony slouched against the doorframe, an inexplicable sadness in his eyes that made Gibbs worry he had said something out loud.

But Tony just blinked the emotion away and joked, "If I'd known cooking made you so happy, I'd have sweet-talked the director into installing a kitchen in the squad room."

Gibbs' hand stilled on the knife, mid-slice through a nice cut of beef. But then he started cutting again, knowing he couldn't tell Tony about his lost family. No one knew—though he suspected Ducky might. The information wasn't exactly classified, and Gibbs knew the older agents—agents who had known Ducky longer than they'd known him—liked to talk.

"I'm guessing your parents never did the cooking in that big fancy house of yours?" Gibbs asked, his mind more in the past than the present. He winced, realizing his mistake as the shadows returned to Tony's eyes. He also realized he had used DiNozzo's technique for his own benefit, to keep Tony's sharp mind from somehow finding out all of Gibbs' secrets. It was irrational, Gibbs knew. But a lot of fears are.

Tony simply smiled. "My mom did. All the time." His smile turned wry. "There were times when as much wine went into her as the sauce, but I used to love spending time with her in the kitchen. Only my father's side is Italian, but she dove right in, learning from his sisters how to roll pasta, to make gnocchi and sauces from scratch. She didn't have a good relationship with her own family so I think she was happy to have that big family experience. And when the happy dinners turned to shouting matches, well, at least there were always bottles of good wine nearby."

He shook his head, looking like he was bringing himself back out of the past. He sighed. "Even my happy memories turn to shit."

"It would be nice if we could choose what we remember," Gibbs said.

Tony nodded slowly, and a glance over Gibbs' shoulder told the lead agent that his wistful tone had registered with the younger man. Gibbs almost gave in and spilled his secret to his agent. But he didn't. He wasn't sure if he could share that—the good or the bad.

"What's your happiest memory, Gibbs?" Tony asked, making Gibbs worry about mind-reading again.

And the urge was there again—to tell Tony that it was when he had first held Kelly in his arms, his eyes tearing up when that impossibly tiny hand had closed around his callused finger. But he kept silent. He knew Tony had shared a lot this weekend, and maybe he should give him something back, but he also knew Tony was highly empathetic and Gibbs didn't think dumping more pain on him when he was already hurting was the greatest idea.

"The day I hopped on a train and left Stillwater," Gibbs said.

Tony lifted an eyebrow. "So your childhood wasn't the world's best either?" he asked, not sounding surprised.

Gibbs could have kicked himself. He should have known Tony would make that conclusion—he couldn't possibly know that day was also the day he had met his future wife. "I didn't exactly get along with many of the boys my age," he said truthfully. He turned to the sink to wash his hands and found Tony grinning at him.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" he asked, settling in at the table and watching Gibbs pull spices from his well-stocked cabinet. His eyes lit up, his curiosity obviously piqued. "What did people call you when you were a kid? Or was it always 'Gibbs'?"

"_What's your name?" the pretty young redhead asked. _

"_Uh, Leroy Jethro Gibbs."_

"_I'm just gonna call you Gibbs."_

The older man smiled at the memory and gave in. "My first girlfriend called me Gibbs," he admitted, watching Tony's grin get impossibly wider. Gibbs glared. "You tell anyone that and I'll murder you."

Tony laughed, grabbing at his side but still smiling. "So?" he asked.

"So what?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "So what did everyone else call you?"

Gibbs eyed him, noting his perception—and his pale face. "You're dumber when you're all loopy," he said affectionately. "You need to take your pills."

"Need to eat first," Tony said, sniffing appreciatively. "But you know that. Because that smells really, really good, Boss. Family recipe? From your third cousin twice removed? Who called you Leroy?"

Gibbs couldn't help smiling back. "My father calls me Leroy."

Tony looked delighted—and Gibbs realized his excitement over learning these tidbits had completely overridden Tony's usual reaction to the mention of fathers.

"My best buddy in high school called me L.J.," Gibbs offered, putting away the spice jars exactly where he had found them and wiping down the counter to return it to the spotless condition he had found it in.

"Leroy Jethro," Tony said. "That's not very creative. Come on, you had to have had a nickname."

Gibbs just gave him a look. "That was my nickname." He shook his head, wondering how anyone could ever say no to DiNozzo when he was looking like that. "For 'Letter Jacket', because I refused to take mine off for the first week of school when we got 'em, even though it was still hot as hell out that year."

Tony grinned again, and Gibbs knew he was re-evaluating him—trying to picture him as an eager young jock instead of the hardass boss he knew so well. "Football?" Tony guessed.

Gibbs nodded, not surprised Tony had guessed. Gibbs wasn't exactly the soccer type.

"Quarterback?"

Gibbs did raise an eyebrow at that.

And Tony picked up on the unspoken question. "One, the way you watch football. My college QB flinched at all the same plays—the perfect passes dropped by some idiot wideout." A sheepish smile. "Like me."

"Doubt you ever dropped a perfect pass, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, watching Tony lap up the rare compliment. "Two?"

"To what?" Tony asked, the painkillers apparently still affecting him. Or maybe it was the unexpected kind words.

"Reason two," Gibbs prompted.

Tony laughed. "Like you'd ever let someone else call the shots on the field."

Gibbs turned and stirred his creation with a laugh of his own. "I guess you're right about that." He pulled a small plate from a cabinet and set the spoon on it before turning back to Tony's thoughtful expression. "Go on," he said, feeling indulgent because Tony actually looked relaxed for the first time since laying eyes on Brian Landry's bruised body. "Ask."

"Most star quarterbacks are the toast of the town," he said, tipping his head. "Why didn't the other boys like you?"

Gibbs gave him credit for his perception—and for having the balls to ask. "You know me and you're still asking that?" he said teasingly. But he nodded and answered anyway. "Pennsylvania and Texas have more in common than buried fossil fuels. High school football is played to win."

"And you were the best," Tony finished for him, saying what Gibbs was too modest to say. "Didn't matter if you and the tight end got along off the field, as long as you connected on third and long when you were on it."

Gibbs nodded in agreement, wondering if Tony was ignoring his actual question because of loopiness or out of kindness—and he figured it was the latter. Gibbs checked the flame heating the stew and stuck a lid on the pot before turning back to a tired-looking Tony.

"That's gonna be about a half-hour," he said, eyeing the tight set of his agent's mouth. "You want something else or you wanna wait?"

Those lips curved upward and Tony shook his head. "I'd wait a year for something that smells that good, bum shoulder or not."

Gibbs watched Tony push his chair back from the table and start to get up. Gibbs said, "It's nothing special—"

"Oh fuck," Tony said, the curse contrasting sharply with the low volume of that epithet. "Fuck," he repeated. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The words—combined with DiNozzo's suddenly bone-white countenance and the hand desperately clutching at his arm—told Gibbs his agent had popped the shoulder out while simply trying to stand up. He knew it was something that happened with people who had recurrent dislocations.

But that didn't help his guilt.

Gibbs crossed the kitchen in three strides and gently pushed Tony back into the chair. "Easy," Gibbs said, his left hand on Tony's neck, his right barely touching the elbow through the sling. "You get it back in?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Huhhh," Tony panted, shaking his head and then stilling immediately at the pain. "No. Please. Gibbs, please?"

It wasn't hard to figure out what Tony wanted. But still Gibbs hesitated, not wanting to hurt him more. It had been a while since he had reduced a dislocated shoulder that wasn't his own.

"Please?" Tony begged again, panting harder. His pained green eyes met Gibbs'. "Help me?"

Gibbs nodded, moving his hands into position and feeling out the deformity, and he didn't bother giving a warning before snapping the joint back into place with a loud pop. He immediately pulled Tony closer, wrapping his arms around the shaking body and saying, "It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe."

They stayed that way until Tony's breathing calmed, and then Gibbs moved back slowly, making sure the shoulder stayed put when he gently broke contact. Gibbs straightened with a pop of his own knees and headed for the freezer, finding an ice pack and wrapping it in a kitchen towel.

"Glad that didn't happen yesterday," Gibbs said, mostly to fill the slightly awkward silence—as if he hadn't just been holding his agent and trying to ignore the guilt trying to claw its way out of his chest. "Hell'd you do last night, anyway?"

The flash of fear as he handed over the ice pack was shocking. But then it was gone so quickly Gibbs wondered if he had imagined it.

But he knew he hadn't.

He flashed back to finding Abby attached to Tony like a barnacle that morning, but he dismissed it. He was pretty sure they hadn't—pretty sure they wouldn't. And even if they had, would or might, it wasn't really his place to stop either of them from being happy if it was what they both wanted.

Gibbs pondered the cause for the fearful look as he got Tony up, looping a gentle arm around him to help him back to the couch. And as Tony adjusted the pillow under his injured arm, Gibbs caught sight of a scar on his right hand that wasn't explained in his medical records.

_Shit. He's scared of me. _

But he shook off that thought, reminding himself that Tony had been abused and mentally cutting him some slack for having a momentary flashback.

At least he hoped that was all it was. He really had no better explanation.

"You let me take you to the hospital?" Gibbs asked, knowing before the question was fully formed that the attempt was futile.

"You got it back in," Tony said, his voice tight with pain. "It can wait until morning."

Gibbs didn't argue—mostly because Tony looked ready to puke or pass out. He went back to the kitchen to check on the stew, and to give his agent a few minutes to collect himself.

It worked.

Gibbs returned to find Tony still too pale for his liking—but looking at him expectantly. He eyed him, quite honestly shocked by the rapid improvement, considering Gibbs had felt the deformity in the kid's shoulder not twenty minutes before. "Think you can eat without puking?"

"Come on, Boss," Tony said with a one-sided shrug and a grin that actually made Gibbs slightly uneasy. "Nothing wrong with my stomach."

* * *

Tony walked into the squad room around noon the next day with a ball of ice lodged in his belly.

He tried to tell himself it was from having spent the rest of the night cracked out on painkillers and trying not to spill his every last secret to his boss, who had stayed within about three feet of him the entire night and yet somehow never crossed the line into smothering or fussing over him. Tony had done a lot of sleeping—and a lot of talking about his painful past, hating himself for using the memories to distract Gibbs from what was really bothering him. But Tony also realized that he had never really let go and told anyone all the agonizing details—Abby got watered-down versions for both of their sakes—and he found that it actually felt good, as if by speaking the words, he was releasing the pain that he had kept inside for so long.

He also tried to tell himself his unease was from being poked, prodded and manipulated to within an inch of his life that morning at the doctor's. Or from lying in the MRI, listening to the clinks, clunks and eerie rat-a-tat-tats and thinking back to when it had been his knee that felt like it was coming apart, along with his dreams for the future.

He tried to tell himself it was from when he emerged into the waiting room, trying to hide the tremors—only to have Gibbs move immediately to his side, offering support both with the hand under his good arm and the quiet, "You'll be okay, DiNozzo."

Tony was a damned good liar—but he couldn't lie to himself.

He was scared.

And not of the results of his medical tests.

The fact that he couldn't quite place the fear did nothing to thaw the ice ball. He had made his choice with Landry, and he wasn't second-guessing himself—or his actions. He would do it again in a heartbeat.

But that didn't mean he wasn't worried about possible consequences. He wondered what it said about him that he was infinitely more terrified of Gibbs finding out than any legal repercussions. Tony was fairly certain he had read Landry right and the coward wouldn't report him.

But Gibbs. Well, Gibbs was nothing if not occasionally omniscient.

Tony was still shocked that Gibbs hadn't taken one look at him on Sunday morning and seen more than a dozen MRIs ever could—and in far greater detail. But Gibbs had been nothing but good to him, kind, even.

And it made Tony's skin crawl with guilt.

He knew his boss felt bad for hurting him. Nothing else could explain Gibbs' gentleness over the weekend. Except maybe all that spilling of his guts about his less-than-stellar childhood. The guilt intensified to almost unbearable heights as he thought about how he had used those sickening details of abuse of distract his ultra-perceptive boss—to keep Gibbs from picking up on his anxiety, hatred and maybe even shame over his confrontation with Landry. Tony also considered the possibility that he had been softening Gibbs, preparing him for the almost inevitable, at least in Tony's head, day when Gibbs found out what he had done.

Maybe if Gibbs knew _why _Tony couldn't let Landry get away with hurting his son, he just might be able to forgive the _how_ Tony had gone about making him pay.

"Is it that bad?" McGee asked, jerking Tony out of his thoughts and making him realize he had been just standing, staring at the floor.

"Won't know anything until later this afternoon," he said, not bothering to force any sort of inflection into the words.

McGee frowned. "I thought Ducky pulled some strings?"

"He did," Tony said, not bothering to mask his slight annoyance. "That's why I'm getting results in a few hours instead of a few days."

"Oh," was all McGee managed before the phone on Gibbs' desk rang. Tony remained standing out of habit, but he knew there was no way he would be heading out into the field with his injuries. Gibbs hung up the phone without saying a word to the caller. His piercing blue gaze hit Tony long before the words did, and he realized why the ice ball was suddenly glacier-sized.

"Got a body," Gibbs said, the tension in that oft-emotionless phrase making the rest of Gibbs' words unnecessary—at least to Tony.

"Staff Sergeant Kenneth Landry was found dead this morning."


	17. Chapter 17

Tony realized several things just then.

The first was that he had been wrong. There was no way in hell he _wasn't_ heading out into the field today. The second was that convincing Gibbs of that was going to be next to impossible. The third was that his gut was nowhere near as good as Gibbs': Tony had known something was very, very wrong, but he had never imagined it was _this._

"How?" Tony asked, his tone so firm no one would have guessed at the gelatinous quivering of his insides.

Gibbs' eyes were boring straight into Tony's. "Someone shoved his K-Bar through his heart."

Tony's eyes were calm as ponds even as his head churned like an ocean amid a hurricane. _His K-Bar. The K-Bar he tried to attack me with two nights ago. The K-Bar I threw into the doorframe. The K-Bar that could have my prints on it. _

Tony thought furiously, trying to remember if he had wiped the knife—but he knew hadn't. He had expected Landry to pull the knife from the wall, his grip smearing whatever prints Tony had left behind. A small sigh of relief bubbled up in his throat when he realized whoever had killed Landry would have had to grip the hilt of the knife to pry it from the wall, likely obliterating whatever whorls and ridges Tony had left behind.

That relief was short-lived, however, when Gibbs crooked a finger, beckoning Tony to the elevator without saying a word.

Tony followed him inside and flipped the emergency stop switch for him. He faced his boss, looking him dead in the eyes, and waited.

"Did you kill him?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

It was what Tony had been expecting, but the words still hit him hard. His good hand came up to cradle the arm still in the sling. "Boss—"

"Did. You. Kill. Him?"

"No, I didn't," Tony said firmly, his hand dropping away from his elbow at Gibbs' nod.

"Hell, I know that," Gibbs said, running a hand through his hair. "And I'm your alibi for most of the weekend, anyway. Go home. I'll have Ducky call you with your MRI results."

"Gibbs—"

"Right," he said. "You shouldn't be driving. Have Abby take you home."

"Gibbs," Tony said again, softly.

"No, DiNozzo. You're not coming." Gibbs shook his head. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine," Tony countered. "But I'll go nuts just sitting around all afternoon waiting to hear how fucked up my shoulder is, Boss. Come on, we both know that's why you brought me here instead of taking me home. If this were any other case, you'd let me tag along—if only so you could keep an eye on me."

Gibbs' silence served as his concession.

Tony's eyes went hard. "Do you not want me there because I'm a suspect?"

Gibbs let out a breath. "Come on." He flipped the switch. "Eyes only, DiNozzo. You don't work the scene, you don't touch anything, and I'll plant your ass if you so much as look dizzy. Clear?"

"As a bell," Tony said, smiling even though he felt like he might shatter from the tension.

That tension only built on the ride to the Landry residence, as the team wondered aloud who would want to kill the man—besides the agent sitting silently in the truck with them. And if either Kate or McGee wondered why their injured teammate was joining them, neither mentioned it. Tony figured neither had the balls to question Gibbs' judgment.

And then the thought occurred to him that Gibbs had brought him along to gauge his reaction to the scene, and Tony swallowed hard, feeling a queasiness that had nothing to do with the painkillers in his system. He tried to focus on the conversation and half-listened to Kate theorizing that Landry's murder was work-related.

But Gibbs all but dismissed that, saying, "Unlikely. He was just a paper-pusher."

Tony winced at Gibbs' use of his exact phrase to the dead man, but he put a hand to his arm to mask it and no one seemed to notice.

McGee tried his theory next. "Break-in?" he ventured, apparently not remembering DiNozzo's words on Friday: _"Doubt the poor guy needs to add a break-in to his troubles." _

"Break-in right after his son kills himself?" Kate scoffed. "Big coincidence," she said, shooting a look at Gibbs.

Tony realized he hadn't spoken the entire ride and said, "Maybe not. Burglar could have known and thought the Staff Sergeant wouldn't be able to stand being in the house."

He heard the derision in his tone and told himself to shut the hell up, but Kate just said, quietly, "I don't know how he could."

"Not a random burglary," Gibbs said, ignoring the tension in the cab. "Alarm was never triggered."

Holding his breath and ignoring the pain in his side, Tony just waited for McGee to remember their exchange outside Landry's house.

But all McGee said was, "What about Brian's friends? Maybe one of them knew about the abuse and just lost it when the boy killed himself. A friend might know the alarm code."

"And be able to get close enough to stab a Marine in the heart with his own knife," Gibbs agreed.

Kate was frowning. "But we don't even know that Landry beat his son."

_I do_, Tony thought, keeping his mouth clamped shut. He froze when Gibbs glanced at him from the driver's seat.

"He did it," Gibbs said simply, his eyes lingering on Tony's face for a moment before turning back to the road.

Tony's breath caught hard enough to make him put a hand to his aching side. For a second, he imagined Gibbs hopping out of the truck and snapping cuffs on his wrists.

But Gibbs just hopped out of the truck, his eyes snapping to Tony's. He didn't have to say a word—it was all written there in ice blue. Tony nodded, realizing of course Gibbs had seen the scrapes on Landry's knuckles and remembering Gibbs' words about there being a time for those questions.

Except now there wasn't. Not with Landry dead.

Gibbs held open the squat metal gate in the stone wall that DiNozzo had hopped so nimbly over two nights ago, the rare gesture reminding Tony that he wasn't here as an agent. Tony wondered what that made him. An errant child in need of babysitting? As he followed Gibbs toward the house, Tony wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but the pain in his side intensified suddenly, as if Landry were right there again with his damned lamp.

But that wasn't possible. Not with Landry dead.

Killed by a knife Tony had held in his hands less than 48 hours ago.

DiNozzo shook himself back into cop mode despite Gibbs' wordless warning, and he entered the house behind his boss. He almost walked straight to the den even though no one had told him where the body was, but he stopped short at the photo of Brian, carefully placed on the mantel next to the boy's mother's.

Tony felt the temperature in the room drop to freezing and he couldn't help shivering. It was like Landry was speaking to him from the dead.

Gibbs apparently saw the blood drain from his face because he was suddenly at Tony's side, ignoring Kate's and McGee's surprised looks when he said, gently, "You okay? Here, sit." Gibbs pushed his agent to sit on the flowery sofa—the same one Landry had occupied during their recent "chat." Gibbs' hand ghosted over the injured shoulder, eyeing it critically but not actually touching. "It come out?"

Tony shook his head. "Not work-related. Not random," he said, reading Gibbs' slight confusion at the sudden change in subject. He nodded at the mantel. "That photo was in the hallway last time we were here."

"Good memory" was all Gibbs said, his eyes still searching Tony's face.

And Tony's chilled blood dropped several more degrees.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if struggling to remember—as if his last visit to this house wasn't more recent than his coworkers'—and he said, "Landry mentioned the boy's eyes being just like his mother's. I looked for a photo in here, but there wasn't one. But I did remember seeing that one in the hall on the way up to Brian's room."

Gibbs nodded at McGee, who slipped out of the room, down the hall and returned a moment later. "There's a nail on the wall but no photo."

_Right across from the den, _Tony thought, _where they found Landry. _

"Right across from the den," McGee said, "where the maid found Landry's body this morning."

Kate moved into the hallway connected to the living room and entered the den. She called back to the group, "So the killer beats Landry, stabs him, and then steps out into the hall." She mimicked the movements. "He looks up, sees Brian's photo and then moves it in here," she said, pantomiming the motions and turning back with a frown. "Tony's right, Gibbs. This was personal. The killer knew what Landry was doing to the boy. He knew this family."

_Or one like it_, Tony thought, wondering why he hadn't just stayed the hell away. But he knew not knowing what was happening would have been far, far worse. Tony looked up at Kate's thoughtful frown and suddenly her words clicked. _How did she know he was beaten? Was he shirtless, too? Just like Brian? _

Tony stood, suddenly needing to know, needing to go to the room he had stood in Saturday night. Because that night was coming flooding back, in hazy bits and shadowy pieces because it all suddenly seemed surreal. The conflicting shame over what he had done warred with the knowledge that he would do it again, given the same choice.

Gibbs stayed close without hovering, and DiNozzo turned to him. "I need to go grab gloves."

Gibbs didn't speak immediately, and Tony forced his face into complete blankness—like that time when he had slipped up and his third-grade teacher saw the perfect fingerprint-shaped bruises on his arm. Tony couldn't remember exactly what he had said to explain them away, but he knew his calmness and faked smile had helped sell the story.

So he smiled, "Rule No. 2, Gibbs."

"Don't worry about it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, glancing down at Tony's arm in its sling. "Besides, none of us wore gloves when we cleared the place on Friday. Your prints are probably all over the place."

Tony raised an eyebrow at the breach in protocol even as his mind was churning sickly. _Does he know? Oh, fuck. Does he think I killed Landry and now he's _protecting_ me? Why would he do that? And how could he even _think_ that? _

"And I told you," Gibbs said firmly, "you're not processing this scene." He headed toward the den. "Look. Don't touch."

Tony followed woodenly, unsure what to make of that. He had no idea what to think, but he was surprised when Gibbs went first into the den, not even glancing back as Tony took in the state of the body.

Landry was not as Tony had left him Saturday night.

The man's face was bruised and bloodied, his nose obviously broken. And then of course there was the K-Bar sticking from Landry's bare chest that had not been there when Tony had left him. Tony felt the bands of tension around his chest ease, and he realized it was massive relief that he was feeling. _I didn't do that_, he thought. That was followed with a mental headslap. _Of course you didn't kill him. You know you didn't. _That was followed with another thought, an unsettling whispering at the back of his mind. _But you did start this. Does it really matter who ended it? _

The panic returned as his eyes flicked to the spot where he had impaled the knife in the doorframe, and he realized he half-expected it to magically still be there, with his big, stupid, incriminating prints right where he had left them. But it wasn't. They weren't. Because it was buried in the dead man's chest.

Tony's stomach dropped to his toes when he suddenly remembered the other object he had left those prints on. He didn't even need to look to the center of the desk to know it would be there, sitting gleamingly innocent right where his hands had placed it. But then he looked anyway.

And Landry's ring was exactly as Tony had left it Saturday night.


	18. Chapter 18

Ducky walked into Kenneth Landry's den to find one very deceased Staff Sergeant.

And one very pale Anthony DiNozzo.

"Anthony, I didn't expect to see you here," the doctor said, shooting Gibbs a murderous glare. "How did you fare at your appointment with Dr. Lessing this morning?"

"It was… uh, fine," DiNozzo said, shaking his head and looking a little too confused for Ducky's liking. He knew the agent's reactions to painkillers, but he couldn't help wondering why on earth Jethro would have let Tony come to this scene—especially when he had a perfectly good reason to keep him away. Tony's eyes came up sharply and his tone was riddled with barely concealed anxiety as he asked, "Did you hear from him? Is something—"

Ducky held up his hands, suddenly understanding Gibbs' reasoning.

Tony blushed and spoke before Ducky could. "I'm sorry. I should be thanking you for getting me in so quick. It was agony waiting to find out after my knee in college."

"It was no problem at all," Ducky said with a soft smile. He sent Palmer off for the gurney and set about his work as Gibbs gave him a look that said the time for pleasantries was over. He found his eyes straying, though, and he pondered the curious fact that Anthony hadn't mentioned pain in relation to either injury except in reference to the nonphysical agony of waiting to hear how extensive his knee injury was.

"Duck?"

Gibbs' voice broke into the doctor's thoughts and he realized he hadn't been paying much attention to the body left to his care. Ducky flicked one last glance at Tony's pale face and then studied Landry's bloody one.

"Well now, someone obviously did not like our Staff Sergeant very much," he commented, prodding the dead man's face. He nodded to Jimmy, who began laying out the body bag. "Broken nose, split lip, deep bruising to his right cheek and eye. Extensive bruising to the torso. Yet not a scratch on the left side of his face."

McGee lowered his camera. "Left-handed attacker?"

"Quite likely," Ducky agreed, watching Tony cradle his immobilized arm and wishing the lad would go home and rest. He helped Jimmy move the body, noting the extensive bruising on Landry's back before examining the man's face again. "But this attacker did not use his fists exclusively. See this straight line here on his cheek? I would say Landry was slammed, violently, into a wall. Or perhaps a doorframe."

McGee, who was standing by that doorframe, examined it closely. "Here," he said, pointing. "The outer edge of the moulding is damaged. Could this straight edge have made that straight line on his cheek, Ducky?"

The doctor crossed the room and ran his eyes down the frame. "Possibly," he said, nodding as McGee snapped a few photos of the broken edge. "But since it's a squared edge, it would be difficult to distinguish from any other perfectly ninety-degree edge, such as the door itself. He could even have been hit with the base of that broken lamp, there. What's more curious, however, is the lack of blood, if either is what made those marks."

Kate grabbed the equipment case and knelt down to examine the lamp. She pulled out the luminol and coated the surface, nodding at Gibbs, who turned off the lights. "No blood on here," she said.

"The paint is smudged," McGee said, touching a discoloration on the soft green wall. Kate passed him the luminol and after a few quick sprays and another flip of the light switch, the wall glowed a telltale blue. McGee frowned. "Why would the killer wipe Landry's blood from the wall? It's not like we wouldn't know Landry was killed here—he left the body right there."

"What if it was the killer's blood?" Kate ventured, moving back to finish collecting fingerprints from a tall cabinet. "Maybe there was a struggle and the killer was injured."

"But Landry's face is likely what slammed into the doorframe," McGee argued, looking perplexed.

Ducky looked to Tony, who often would step in at a time like this. But the agent was simply staring at the doorframe, his eyes slightly glazed. Ducky fought the urge to ask him if he was all right and simply said, "Ah, it seems we have ourselves a mystery." He moved closer to the doorframe, following Tony's eyes. "Timothy. I believe you missed something here."

"What? No, I got the damage to the moulding," McGee said.

"All of it?" Ducky asked mildly, watching the young agent re-examine the wood.

"Oh," McGee said, flushing as he spotted the gash there. "I guess I missed that."

"No worries," Ducky said, holding the ruler for the agent while McGee snapped photos of the gouge's height, width and depth. "I bet next time, you'll be the first to spot it."

Gibbs, whom Ducky had noticed watching DiNozzo through most of the exchange, moved across the room to peer up at the damage. "Could be from his knife." He flipped open his own knife and held it up. "Mine's wider than a K-Bar. Looks about right."

Ducky watched him pocket the knife and shoot another glance at Anthony, who looked even paler than before. But Kate's words stopped anything he might have said.

"Odd place to practice knife-throwing."

"Not if he was being attacked and didn't want to get killed with his own K-Bar," Gibbs said. "Takes time and effort to dig a well-thrown knife out of solid wood."

There was something about his tone that made Ducky shiver—or maybe it was the obviously too-cold room. "Time of death is going to be more difficult to determine, considering someone turned the AC to its lowest limits. Timothy, would you be so kind as to go find me a temperature reading, please?"

McGee was gone and back in a flash. "Fifty degrees in here," he said. "Killer was trying to hide the time of death."

"Why not just hide the body?" Kate asked, tilting her head to the side. "Maybe he was going to—that's why he wiped the blood—but then he got interrupted."

"Or chickened out on driving around with a dead body," McGee said.

But Kate shook her head. "That doesn't make sense either." She lifted the fingerprinting kit. "He cleaned up the blood but there are prints all over. If he decided to leave the body, he should have wiped the place down."

"Didn't think about that?" McGee guessed.

Kate just scoffed. "But he knew enough to turn the AC down?"

"Or he wore gloves," Gibbs said.

Kate huffed out a breath and eyed the fingerprint kit. "If that's true, then I'm wasting my time," she said, moving on to the next available surface.

"He was never going to move the body," Tony's soft voice cut into the ensuing silence. Ducky thought the agent sounded exhausted and wondered if it might have been better for him to have stayed home, anxiety and all. DiNozzo pointed to the ring on the desk and then to Landry's chest. "Whoever did this was making a statement. Like with the moved photo."

Ducky flicked a glance at Anthony and then moved to the desk. He looked from the ring to the bruises on Landry's bare chest. "The killer hit him with his own ring," Ducky said, looking back at Tony's somewhat glassy eyes, "and then stripped his shirt off to display the damage."

"And to make the obvious connection to Brian," Tony said, his face ghostly white.

Ducky frowned at him. "How did you see that from over there?"

Tony just lifted a shoulder. "Twenty-ten, Doc," he said, referring to his better-than-average vision. "Plus the desk is a mess but the ring is right there, uncovered and not touching anything else." He paused, wincing a little and tugging at the sling. "Someone put it there, deliberately."

"And just dropped this here," Kate said, bending to pick up Landry's shirt from the floor behind the desk. "No blood, no slashes or tears. But the buttons were ripped off. Killer took it off—pulled it off—before Landry was stabbed."

"Hmmm," Ducky murmured, eyeing the ring on the desk as McGee prepared an evidence bag for it. "Just as Brian removed his shirt before his death."

"Except the big difference is that Brian killed himself," Kate said, her hand resting on the gun at her hip as it always did when she was nervous. "Someone killed the Staff Sergeant."

There was a short silence as McGee bagged the ring.

"Fine," Kate said, visibly steeling herself. "I'll say it if no one else will. The killer knew about the abuse, knew about the ring—and the shirt. The press couldn't have known those details. Hell, our reports are still sitting on your desk, Gibbs. Tony hasn't even finished his yet. All I'm saying is—"

"Agent Todd," Gibbs growled, his tone low and dangerous.

But Tony simply stood and finished her sentence. "All of our best suspects are standing in this room."

* * *

No one spoke on the ride back to the Navy Yard, and that was just fine with Gibbs.

He needed the time to think, but really, it took him no time at all to realize that he knew his team hadn't done this. They all had their quirks, all had their flaws, but none of them was a cold-blooded murderer. Gibbs couldn't name all of Kate's brothers, all of McGee's degrees, or even Tony's last girlfriend—but he knew his people.

Someone else had killed Kenneth Landry.

Gibbs' mind strayed to the one person on the team he knew the least about, but then he almost laughed. Jimmy Palmer was more likely to trip, fall and stab a corpse with a scalpel than to deliberately take a human life. And Gibbs knew Ducky always took child-abuse cases hard, but the amiable old doc hadn't gone vigilante yet—and Gibbs knew he never would.

_So who the hell killed Landry? _

Gibbs pushed aside the questions and simply drove, ignoring the glances his senior agent kept tossing at him. There was no emotion in the green eyes that lingered every now and then, but Gibbs didn't need it to know how Tony was feeling. The looks were telling enough.

But he waited until later, when McGee and Kate stepped off the elevator, both loaded down with evidence for Abby to begin processing. Gibbs flipped the emergency switch and turned to Tony.

"Ask, DiNozzo."

The emotion was there in his eyes this time, but Gibbs was surprised to find DiNozzo looking at him in confusion. He started to wonder where Tony had learned to be such a skilled performer, but then he realized he already knew, thanks to the weekend full of painful admissions.

"Come on, Tony," Gibbs said, as patiently as he could. "I asked you. Go ahead and ask me."

The words took a moment to register, and Gibbs wondered how Tony could look so foggy and so uncomfortable at the same time. If he was hazy from the painkillers, then he shouldn't still be in pain.

But Tony's words obliterated all thoughts about his mental state. "I know you didn't do it, Boss." His eyes went wide and he shook his head, hard. "And not because I did it. I just know you didn't. I know you wouldn't."

Gibbs heard the subtle change in his tone and eyed him warily. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

The debate raging behind Tony's green eyes couldn't obscure the emotion in them. Gibbs recognized it immediately as sympathy, and as Tony reached out to flip the switch, he locked a hand around his agent's wrist. "Tell me exactly what you know."

Gibbs felt him go completely still, and looking down at his white-knuckled grip, he remembered Tony's dreams about his father's talons for hands. He let go immediately, holding up his hands to show he wasn't a threat. "Tony. I didn't mean—"

"I know about your daughter, Gibbs."

And suddenly it was like time stopped. It was like he was standing there in that impound lot with Mike Franks, staring at the bloody wreckage that had claimed his wife and daughter's lives. Like he was lying on a ridge in Mexico...

Tony spoke before his boss could ask, and Gibbs gave him credit for doing this in the tight confines of the elevator. Hell, for doing this at all.

"The case," Tony said, "in Baltimore—"

"Dempsey," Gibbs said, shaking his head and naming one of DiNozzo's fellow detectives. "He knew me from the Corps. Hell. He just told you?"

"No," Tony said, backing up a step but not looking terribly worried for his physical well-being. "I… I overheard him say something to someone on the phone. I'm guessing it was his wife. Something about the last time he'd seen you so upset was… Gibbs, I'm sorry. I know he didn't mean for me to hear it, and I just happened to walk into the room…" Tony stopped fumbling and looked Gibbs straight in the eyes. "I didn't hear any details, and I didn't go digging for any, either. And when you never talked about her, I just figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

Gibbs felt a pang of guilt at that, knowing Tony thought he didn't trust him with his secret—and knowing he was right. Gibbs didn't trust anyone with that secret, and he found himself asking, "Do you know how Kelly died?"

Tony flinched. He said softly, his eyes full of compassion, "I didn't even know her name."

The elevator was silent, no sound but the slight humming of the blue lights.

Tony gave a restless little shift and said, "I just figured something had happened to her, and her mother became one of your ex-wives. I didn't dare ever bring it up, but maybe I should have. I knew you came in each Monday after Father's Day a little late and a lot hungover, and I knew why. But I never said anything. I'm sorry for that, Boss. And I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I didn't divorce her mother," Gibbs said, speaking the words before he had even thought them through. His mind was swirling with emotions so complex he couldn't even begin to process them all. So he focused on his agent instead.

He saw Tony looking confused—and then suddenly horrified.

"Gibbs, I—"

"They were murdered," Gibbs said shortly, wondering if Tony had felt the same misplaced anger when talking about his father's abuse. "While I was overseas."

Tony's eyes closed for a moment before snapping back open. "That's why you were going to let Landry go to his son's funeral. Because you never…?"

Gibbs shook his head. "I made it home for theirs. _That's_ why I couldn't deny Landry his chance to say goodbye." Gibbs sighed, brutally shoving away the past. "Not that it matters now."

He saw Tony open his mouth to speak, but Gibbs cut him off. "I appreciate you keeping this between us," he said stiffly.

"I would never—"

"I know," Gibbs said, effectively ending all conversation on that topic. "But we still have a problem. If you didn't kill Landry, and I didn't kill Landry—then who the hell did?"


	19. Chapter 19

The able-bodied members of the team split up to go begin interviews: Kate got Brian's friends, no doubt with the hope that a bunch of teenage boys would try to impress a pretty female agent; McGee got Brian's teachers, matching brains with brains; and Gibbs took Landry's coworkers for some good old Marine-to-Marine chats.

Tony was waiting.

He lay on the soft, worn couch in Ducky's office, ostensibly getting some rest and waiting for the results of his MRI. And that cover worked just fine for the agent because it meant he could let all of his anxiety show on his face.

He was waiting.

Waiting for a doctor to call with a bad diagnosis and plans for surgery—which Tony would fight tooth and nail because there was no way he was going to make himself that vulnerable at a time like this. Waiting for Ducky or Jimmy to find some telling evidence on the corpse they were autopsying not fifty feet away from the man who had beaten him, taunted him, shamed him. Waiting for that corpse to sit bolt upright on the cold metal table and point a pale lifeless finger toward the office and proclaim Tony his killer. Waiting for his team to come back and arrest him. Waiting for Gibbs to come back and confess.

That last thought had Tony struggling to sit up, his good hand going not to his aching shoulder but to grab the cushion under him in a death grip.

_Gibbs did not do this_, he thought firmly. _But then who did? Who else knew everything we knew? _

He ignored one obvious answer to that—because the consequences of it being the right one were more than Tony could handle just then.

He forced his thoughts away from the case and back to the exchange in the elevator. He had told Gibbs he knew about his daughter to reassure him that he knew Gibbs hadn't killed Landry. There was no way Gibbs would be so adamant about letting Landry attend his son's funeral and then turn around and kill the guy first. Brian's funeral had been scheduled for this morning, but it had been postponed at the news of Landry's death. Tony wondered what would happen next, but he shook his head, knowing he had bigger things to worry about.

Like whether his boss was a killer.

The timing was a problem. If Gibbs had killed Landry, then he would have missed Tony at the house by a very small margin.

_If he missed you at all. _

Tony's breathing picked up as another thought occurred to him. _What if Gibbs knew all along? Is that why he stayed with me most of the weekend? He could have known I was faking the injury, followed me to Landry's, and then…? Then what? Let me walk in and kill Landry? Was he watching the whole time? Waiting to step in if I needed backup? Or was he too late to stop me? But I didn't go there to kill Landry, and Gibbs couldn't have known that. _

Tony stopped breathing altogether.

_Did he kill Landry after I left, thinking he was protecting me? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Landry would have reported me—and what if Gibbs knew that? What if he killed Landry to keep me from going to jail? Do I really mean that much to him that he would take a risk like that? For me? _

"Tony," came Ducky's concerned voice from the door. The doctor moved immediately to the agent's side, sitting next to him and placing a hand on Tony's white knuckles. "Are you all right?"

Tony blinked at him for a second, prying himself out of his thoughts. "I…" he started, drawing as deep a breath as he could. "I had this weird dream," he said, looking down at their joined hands. "But now I can't remember it. Don't you hate it when that happens?"

"Perhaps it's for the best," Ducky said, patting Tony's hand and getting up to lean against his desk. "Dr. Lessing called and asked me to pass along—"

"Wait," Tony said, shaking his head and still feeling foggy. "When did he call? I didn't hear a phone ring."

Ducky smiled. "Just a few moments ago—to the phone in the other room. You must have been deep in the throes of your dream."

_Something like that_, Tony thought, unnerved that he had been so lost in his thoughts—and his guilt—that he hadn't even heard the phone ringing. Especially considering he had been anxiously awaiting that call.

"So bad news? Or worse news?" Tony asked, not bothering to mask his fear.

Ducky just chuckled. "Careful, my lad. You'll ruin that happy-go-lucky, eternal optimist reputation you have worked so hard at building." Ducky didn't wait for a response, which was lucky because Tony didn't think he could speak right then. "It's not terrible news. And remember, it could always be worse."

"That's not very reassuring, Doc," Tony said, finding his voice and trying to smile. At least if Ducky noticed his struggle, Tony had a good excuse.

"You have a partial-thickness rotator cuff tear—"

"Oh thank hell, Ducky," Tony cut in, moving to get up. He stopped at the hand Ducky held up.

"_If_ that were the only defect on your scans," Ducky said firmly, "I would recommend immobilization for a bit until the inflammation goes down and then a stringent course of physical therapy to strengthen the rotator cuff and other surrounding muscles."

"If?" was all Tony could say.

Ducky frowned. "The capsule of your shoulder is stretched from your chronic instability and subsequent recurrent dislocations. There are two options for surgery, arthroscopic and open capsular shift. There is also a new technique, called thermal capsulorrhaphy, which is quite popular in Canada and the northern United States. I don't recommend it, however, because it is untested long-term and I would hate to see you have problems down the road. Speaking of Canada, down the road, there is this lovely little maple syrup shack just outside of—"

Tony just gave him a look.

"Ah," Ducky said. "It seems you are learning more and more from Jethro all the time. But I would advise you not to pick up his stubbornness, Anthony. You should have the surgery."

"Labrum intact?" Tony asked, referring the rim of cartilage that serves to deepen the pocket of the shoulder and provide stability.

Ducky studied his face for a moment before sighing and saying, "Same minor tear that I'm guessing has been there for years." His eyes were sad when he asked, "Why didn't you get it repaired?"

Tony felt the redness in his cheeks as he looked away. "Couldn't afford it," he said quietly. "And there was no way in hell I was going to ask my father for help. I just did a ton of physical therapy—a few sessions with a therapist and the rest on my own. It strengthened everything around the tear and kept me from having major problems."

"Anthony," Ducky said, the gentleness in his lilting voice making Tony's chest hurt. "You can afford it now, my boy. And if you're worried about needing help after the surgery, then you are simply being silly. You have plenty of people who would be perfectly willing to assist you with anything you might need. Beginning with me."

"I'll go with option one, Ducky. This," he said, tapping the sling, "and then I'll do the physical therapy. I'm not having surgery."

The doctor frowned tightly. "You confound me sometimes, Anthony. You'll demand the entire building's attention over a papercut, but when it comes to a serious injury, you shove everyone away." He sighed, shaking his head. "Though it's really not all that surprising, given what I know about how you were treated as a child."

Tony's head snapped up at that and he tried to rein in his defensive anger. "What exactly does getting knocked around as a kid have to do with not needing this surgery?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his tone.

But Ducky just continued, "You will gladly let everyone think you're a shallow, attention-seeking weakling because when it comes to actually letting yourself be vulnerable, you have no idea how to handle sincere concern for your own well-being. You would rather I laugh and tell you to get over yourself than touch you and tell you everything is going to be all right."

The doctor sat back on the couch and put a soft hand on Tony's knee. "Everything _is _going to be all right, Tony."

_Not if I end up in jail for what I did to Landry. Not if I confess to killing him to keep Gibbs from going to jail for me. Not if I find myself in a cell, a cop surrounded by cons. And if that happens, then I need to be able to protect myself. _

"I know," Tony said, sliding out from under Ducky's gentle touch and standing. "Because with a little rest and some physical therapy, I'll be just fine."

"Anthony, please," Ducky said, watching Tony move toward the door. "Please reconsider this. I don't understand. Instability and the dislocations that come with it are very painful, the surgery works, and you have no reason to fear being left alone to deal with the recovery on your own. I just can't see any good reason for you to suffer."

_I can_, Tony thought, shoving aside images of Landry's dead body.

"Thanks, Ducky," he said, pausing in the doorway. "I know you called in a favor for me. I appreciate it."

He left the office, knowing without having to wait around that Ducky would be reaching for the phone.

* * *

"Yeah, Duck. Thanks. I'll talk to him," Gibbs said, while walking the grounds of Landry's workplace at Henderson Hall in Arlington. He hung up the phone before either he or Ducky could voice pessimistic views on how that talk would go. Still, Gibbs knew he had to try.

But it didn't mean he was looking forward to it.

The simple truth was that Gibbs had no idea how to feel about his senior agent now—after the revelations in the elevator. On one hand, Gibbs was angry. He felt like a fool, thinking his secret was safe all this time, only to find out that Tony had known from nearly the beginning of their relationship. Gibbs couldn't help wondering if that was the reason Tony put up with his glaring, the headslaps and his frequent foul moods. But Gibbs knew the anger wasn't fair, because on the other hand, he was shocked by the compassion and sympathy with which Tony had handled the conversation. It made Gibbs remember that Tony, deep down, was rarely the person he wanted you to think he was.

And that thought was even more unsettling than usual.

Often, Gibbs would see Tony's antics and ignore them, knowing full well the game his agent was playing—and why he felt the need to play it. Or he would smile at the inane jokes, if he felt like Tony needed the reassurance that day. But Gibbs had never thought of the games, masks and jokes as anything more than a defense mechanism, a shield to protect the man from his painful past—something Gibbs had known about long before he ever heard the details.

But now, Gibbs had the nagging suspicion that Tony's misdirection might be hiding something more sinister. And the fact that Gibbs had pulled a quietly furious DiNozzo away from Landry only to find the latter dead not three days later didn't help the churning in his famous gut. He had never liked coincidences.

But he had also seen the look in Tony's eyes when his agent had said he didn't kill Landry. Gibbs believed him. Hell, Gibbs didn't believe Tony any more capable of cold-blooded, premeditated murder than Abby. Gibbs knew that Tony, for all his flaws, was a good person—one who had a strong sense of right and wrong, and had made a career of getting justice against those who didn't.

But that didn't mean that Tony wasn't hiding something.

Gibbs raised a hand to knock on Landry's supervisor's door, gladly shoving aside all thoughts of what that "something" might be.


	20. Chapter 20

Gibbs made it back from his assignment before Kate or McGee, who were farther south in Occoquan, Virginia, checking out the Landrys' more personal connections. And even though it was nearly 2100, Gibbs wasn't surprised to find his senior agent sitting at his desk in the dim, deserted squad room. As Gibbs approached from the elevator, he noticed that Tony looked tired and in pain, and he pushed aside his own guilt to wonder why Ducky or Abby hadn't forced him to go home yet.

"You piss off everyone in the building?" Gibbs asked, walking straight up to Tony's desk and opening the drawer where he knew he kept the bottle of painkillers. He set them in front of Tony with the rest of his coffee. "You should be home. Resting up for that surgery."

Tony ignored the bottle, his eyes on the coffee cup. "Please, Gibbs. Don't."

"Don't what? Tell you you're being an idiot?" Gibbs said, remaining standing in front of Tony's desk. "Never had a problem with it before."

"Never when I was actually _being_ an idiot," Tony returned, looking up with steely eyes. "This is my decision. And I'm saying no."

Gibbs just glared until he realized that wasn't going to solve this problem. He softened. "Two things?"

"Depends on which two," Tony said.

Gibbs smiled. "At least consider it?"

But Tony shook his head. "I said no. You can't talk me into this and you can't make me, either. I'm sorry. But this isn't something you can order me to do, Gibbs."

Gibbs took a breath and looked down into Tony's tired green eyes. "Can I ask you to do it then?"

Tony snorted. "You never ask me to do anything, Boss."

"No, I guess not," Gibbs said, cracking a slight smile. It faded as his eyes slid to the sling on Tony's arm. "But considering I put your arm in that thing, can I ask you to do it?"

"You can ask," Tony replied after a slight pause, looking a little guilty himself, "but I'll still say no. This isn't your fault—and you know that from talking to Ducky. Chronic instability." He shrugged as if it was no big deal and the conversation was over.

Gibbs unclenched his teeth and said, "Tony, I pulled your arm out of the socket on Friday—"

"And you put it back in for me yesterday," Tony said dismissively. "I figure we're even."

"Hey," Gibbs barked. He forced himself to speak calmly. "That's your gun hand, DiNozzo. What happens when you're two seconds slower than the dirtbag pointing a weapon at you? Listen, I know you don't want to deal with this. But I don't want to watch you get shot because your reaction time's a little slow because you're in pain. I don't want to order Kate to photograph your dead body, and I don't want Ducky to have to do your autopsy. And I sure as hell don't want to send McGee to inform your next of kin that they need to start planning your damned funeral."

Tony blinked in shock at the sheer amount of words from his oft-brief boss. He swallowed hard. "Uh, Gibbs. My next of kin?" he said, sounding a bit nervous. "That would be you."

Gibbs laughed out loud. "Hell, I know that. Why do you think I don't want McGee pissing his pants on my front porch?"

Tony grinned at him. "It's probably a good thing you don't talk that much that often," he said. "You'd make a scary politician."

"Is that a yes, then?" Gibbs asked, knowing it wasn't but hoping Tony would at least agree to consider having the surgery.

"No," Tony said, his smile slipping. "But I will think about it."

"Fair enough."

"Thing two?" Tony asked, already reaching for the bottle Gibbs had put on his desk.

Gibbs nodded. "And finish the coffee. Unless you want me to take you home?"

"That's three things," Tony said, shaking two pills onto his desk. "And I'm staying. Because I found something while everyone was gone."

Gibbs watched him swallow the pills, and he suppressed a smile as Tony almost gagged on the strong coffee.

"Wow, Boss," Tony said, setting down the cup and eyeing it ominously. "It's called sugar. It won't kill you."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and picked up the cup. "Tell that to a diabetic," he said, jerking his chin at the monitor on Tony's desk. "What'd you find?"

"One of Brian Landry's teachers, a gym teacher named Patrick Walsh, made an official call to Social Services on Friday. Complaint was suspected physical abuse," he said, his eyes bright in the dim lights of the squad room. "Someone else knew what Landry was doing to his son."

The elevator dinged before Gibbs could comment, and he saw McGee juggling files with an excited look on his face. Kate followed, looking slightly more harried.

"Got something, Boss," McGee said, dumping the files on his desk and turning with a big smile to face Gibbs.

"There was a call to Social Services about Brian," he said, glancing down at his notes. "Made by—"

"Patrick Walsh," Gibbs supplied, trying not to smile at the look on the probie's face.

"Uh, yeah," McGee said, eyeing him warily. "He called on—"

"Friday," Gibbs said.

McGee frowned, finishing sadly, "Complaint was—"

"Suspected physical abuse," Gibbs cut in. "I know. DiNozzo did your job already with half the arms."

"And in a fraction of the time, McGeezer," Tony said, smiling at the chagrin on McGee's face.

Gibbs hid his own amusement, secretly enjoying how his team razzed each other. He knew it made them all better, knowing they were pushing each in friendly competition, and that they often got results because of it.

"Gibbs," Kate said, her hushed tone drawing his immediate attention. "A teacher calls Social Services on Friday and then the boy goes home from school and kills himself. That can't be a coincidence."

"Walsh didn't think so either," McGee said, his voice sad. "He was distraught over what had happened." The junior agent flicked a glance at Tony but it was without its usual heat. "That's what took me so long—he told me what led to the call."

Gibbs nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"Walsh is an MMA—that's mixed martial arts," he clarified, glancing at Kate and getting a glare in return, "fighter and instructor, and he tried to get Brian to come to a youth class. Brian was quiet, shy and extremely intelligent. And he was also a loner, and he was always getting picked on so Walsh said he thought the classes would do him some good. Give him some confidence, maybe, or let him make some friends. But Brian demurred—"

" 'Demurred'?" Tony interjected, incredulous. "Who even says 'demurred' anymore?"

Gibbs gave him a look—but it was a mild one because he knew Tony was only talking out of discomfort. Having heard the agent speak about his own abusive childhood—and the pains he went to in order to hide it—Gibbs knew Tony was simply hurting for the lonely little boy.

"Brian _declined_," McGee said, tossing an eye-roll at Tony. "But Walsh didn't want to take no for an answer. He tried explaining the sport to Brian, inviting him to go see a fight with him—which Brian _declined_ because he said his dad probably wouldn't like that very much."

Tony made a little sound of disgust that Gibbs knew was not related to McGee's teasing.

"That's when Walsh tried cajoling him," McGee continued, ignoring Tony's return eye-roll at the term. "He pulled at Brian's shirt and asked if he was afraid to take it off, joking that maybe Brian thought he was 'too fat'."

They were all silent, remembering Brian's skinny body, his ribs showing pitifully through bruised skin. And they all knew what Walsh had seen.

McGee said it anyway. "Walsh saw the bruises on him and asked him what had happened. Brian gave him some excuse about falling out of a tree—"

"Good one," Tony said darkly, his voice barely audible.

"—but Walsh didn't buy it," McGee said, flicking an uneasy glance at Tony. "He told Brian that it was safe to talk to him. That he could help him. He tried everything in the book, Boss. But Brian kept insisting he was fine and that it was nothing."

There was another silence, and Gibbs found himself watching DiNozzo, even though he knew the agent was uncomfortable with that last statement. Gibbs wondered if Tony even knew he had spoken out loud—and also how Tony's life might have been different if he'd had someone like Walsh in his corner.

"Did Walsh tell the boy he was going to call Social Services?" Kate asked.

"Yeah," McGee confirmed. "Brian ran out of Walsh's office and that was the last time he saw him. By the time Walsh had a free period to go talk to him, Brian had already ducked out of school and walked home."

"I can't believe a twelve-year-old boy would rather kill himself than be freed from his abuser," Kate said softly, sinking back against her desk. She shook herself, and Gibbs could practically see her putting her game face back on. "But most abuse victims feel intense shame, especially when confronted with their injuries. Not only was the boy probably terrified of losing his only family, of losing his father so soon after his mother's death, but he was probably also feeling humiliation and misplaced guilt. He couldn't face being 'responsible' for breaking up his family, so he chose to end his own life instead."

"So…?" Tony asked, turning to McGee and ending the awkward silence.

"So what?" McGee asked, looking like a cornered animal.

"So why don't you think Walsh killed Landry?" Tony asked. He shook his head at McGee's nervous fumbling. "You didn't bring him in. I'm hoping you wouldn't just let a possible murderer roam free."

"He's, uh, coming in tomorrow morning for an interview," McGee said, blushing furiously. He lifted his chin though and said, "But I don't think he killed Landry, Boss."

"Yeah, McGee?" Gibbs said, watching the young agent looking at him as if for help. Considering the predatory smile on DiNozzo's face, Gibbs didn't judge the probie too harshly for it. "Why's that?"

"He seemed really upset about Brian. He kept saying that he wished there was something he could do to help him," McGee said.

"Is someone around here investigating a _revenge killing_?" Tony asked, looking around theatrically. "Anyone? Oh yeah. We are."

"You're so juvenile," Kate said, giving him a look. "But he's right, McGee. That's a strike against Walsh, if anything."

Tony dropped the sarcasm. "So why's your McGut telling you he's innocent?"

"I… I don't know," McGee said, resignedly. "I just feel like he is."

Gibbs saw the discouragement and decided to throw the probie a line. "That's why they call it a gut feeling, McGee. You get first crack at him in the morning."

Gibbs picked up the ringing phone on his desk and wondered if McGee could look any more shocked. He hung up the phone. "Abby's got something."


	21. Chapter 21

Tony managed to make it down to the lab without puking, passing out or pissing his pants, none of those urges having anything to do with the painkillers. The giggle he just managed to stifle at his alliterative thoughts, however, just might have been thanks to the pain pills.

His thoughts were all serious, though, when he stepped into Abby's lab and waited for her to nod at Gibbs, who would then slap cuffs around his wrists while Kate and McGee stared in shock at his fingerprints on Landry's ring. Tony wondered if Gibbs would at least cuff his hands in front because of his shoulder.

He hoped not. Because he didn't deserve the consideration.

And then he had to remind himself again that he hadn't killed Landry. That someone else had plunged that K-Bar into the man's chest.

_Someone, Tony? _a voice whispered from the back of his head. _Someone else killed him? Come on. You're a damned good liar, but you can't lie to yourself. You _know _who killed Landry. _

"Whaddaya got, Abbs?" Gibbs said, making Tony wonder if it would be the last time he heard that familiar phrase.

"Me?" Abby asked, her spiky bracelets catching the light as she brought her hands up to her chest. "I got nothin', Bossman."

"Abby—" Gibbs started.

The Goth grinned and pointed over his shoulder at Ducky, who was entering the lab. "But we? We got somethin' for you, Gibbs."

But Gibbs was not placated. "You got nothing, Abby?" he asked, sounding frustrated. "From all those boxes of evidence, you got not one hair, one fiber? Not one fingerprint?"

"Gibbs," Abby said, sounding wounded—and a bit nervous, Tony noticed with a wince. "I have spent the entire day testing hairs and fibers and prints—"

"Oh my," Tony couldn't help saying. He was also trying to gauge Abby's reaction, but he got nothing more than an impatient half-smile in return. And maybe he was also discreetly begging her to save him. But he knew he couldn't actually ask her to lie for him—it was why he had pretty little drunken Julia as his alibi, should he need one.

When _you need one_, he thought guiltily.

"But it got really, reeeeeaaalllly boring when they all turned out to be Landry's or his son's—or the team's," she added quickly. And then quickly when on, "Do you have any idea how frustrating it was to get all excited, over and over and over again, when I'd get a match and look up to see one of your smiling faces? Not that I don't like seeing your smiling faces—because I do. Just not, uh, as evidence at a crime scene. I'm going to be quiet now."

Gibbs gave her a look. "I'd rather you tell me what you found on the evidence we didn't touch, Abbs."

She blanched in a way that made Tony want to blurt out the truth and spare her this hell. He had to mentally slap himself when the first words that came to mind were: _I killed Landry. _

But Gibbs was already saying, "Like the murder weapon? The ring? The photo?"

"I told you, Gibbs," Abby said, shaking her head and looking at the floor. She sighed heavily and continued, "Landry's prints were on the knife and the photo. But his were the only ones. On both items. In fact, I found Landry's prints only on the bottom of the knife—a palm print. The handle was a mess of smeary junk. And I know why." She called up the photo of the gouge in the door. "This gash matches the dimensions of a Marine Corps-issue K-Bar, almost perfectly. The height of the blade is slightly shorter than the gouge though. I know why that is, too. In fact, it's the same answer both questions."

She moved to the table and picked up the bagged knife, drawing it back behind her ear. "Someone threw it into the doorframe with so much force that it buried to the hilt. Now, it also takes a lot of force to pry a knife out of solid wood. I mean, a lot _a lot_ of force. Even one of those awesome guys who wear the kilts at the Highland Games and chuck tree trunks and stuff would have a hard time with this. So," she said, placing the bagged blade carefully between the fingers of her outstretched hand, "whoever pried it out of the wall made this up and down motion, elongating the gash in the wall in order to free the knife. And smearing any prints that might have been on the blade to kingdom come. Wherever that is."

Tony listened numbly while she spoke, wondering why she was delaying the inevitable. He got lucky with the knife. But he knew she had found his prints on that ring. He looked up at her, taking in her big black combat boots, the chains decorating her short skirt, her black t-shirt covered in red stars—and the white lab coat that would have seemed at odds on anyone else.

But to him it was pure Abby.

Tony wanted to hug her. To pull her against his chest and whisper into her pigtails that it was okay. That he didn't blame her for doing her job. That he was sorry he had used her. That he hoped she could forgive him—for everything he had done.

He met her eyes and saw the emotions rolling through them—felt her pain like a blow to his own body.

"What about the ring, Abbs?" he asked, his voice low and even.

She didn't even blink. "There was nothing on the ring. Not even a partial."

Tony kept his mouth from dropping open. Barely. It felt like the world was tipping over, but Tony couldn't say a word. Not with a room full of people. He met Abby's eyes and saw the warning in them.

"Wiped, Abby?" Kate was asking.

"Like a baby's butt," Abby replied, sadly. Her eyes met Tony's again and the message was clear: _If either of us freaks out right now, Gibbs will know everything. Keep it together, DiNozzo. _

"Maybe you were right, Kate," McGee said. "Killer was going to move the body and got interrupted."

"Or," Gibbs said, "the killer wore gloves. Still doesn't explain why he wiped Landry's blood from the doorframe."

"Ah," Ducky said, joining the conversation. "And I have another mystery for you, I'm afraid."

"This is the 'we' part, Gibbs," Abby said, somehow managing to sound excited, which shouldn't have been surprising considering the four empty Caf-Pow!s Tony counted in the trash. "I was getting bored with all the false positives I was getting on the fingerprints so I went to visit Ducky while my machines did all the work for me. Shhh, don't tell the director."

Ducky continued, "The first thing my scientist friend said upon seeing Landry's body was that man's face looked almost striped. I took a closer look," he said, placing photos on Abby's long table. "And you can clearly see this darkest bruise came from striking the edge of an object. But look closely, and you'll see that _all _of the bruising has that vertical orientation. The killer never struck Landry in the face with his fists."

"So the killer didn't want to risk damage to his hands," Kate said, frowning. "That makes perfect sense."

"Ah," Ducky said, flipping more photos onto the table. "Therein lies the mystery, Caitlin. See these bruises here? On his chest and his sides? These lack that straight line. And the marks definitely match Landry's ring, Abby and I double-checked that. The killer put the ring on his finger and punched Landry. Repeatedly. Whoever did that would likely have the puffy knuckles to prove it, whether he punched Landry's face or not."

Tony looked from Gibbs' scraped, slightly swollen hands to his own and he tried not to flinch. He purposely did not look to see who else might be taking notice.

"Are you trying to tell me there were two attackers?" Gibbs said, making Tony's breathing pick up ever so slightly.

"If we're going by method of punishment," Ducky said, "then that would make three. There are clear boot prints on Landry's lower back."

"Do you think you could find me a brand, Abbs?" Gibbs asked.

"Way ahead of you, Bossman," she said, quickly turning her back to the group and calling up a screen on her monitor. "I got this impression from the heel and I'm ninety percent certain it's from a Rockport Basalt or Rockport Banni—both have identical tread patterns and retail for about ninety bucks. Banni comes in black and brown, Basalt in black only—no judgment here. I am, however, one hundred percent sure that this won't help you find a suspect because both are sold in stores across the country and are quite common."

"And quite ugly," Tony said, trying to follow Abby's unspoken advice to act normally. As if his best friend hadn't just risked her career, her beloved job, her _Gibbs_—and possibly her freedom for him.

"Shoe snob," Abby teased, looking relieved. "I bet you don't own anything less than Ferragamos."

_Not anymore_, Tony thought, immensely grateful that he had thought to bury the boots in his trash before it went out Sunday night. He remembered his heart racing about as fast as it was now when Gibbs had looked pointedly at the sling on Tony's arm and demanded he hand over the bag. Tony was glad that had happened before Gibbs had any reason to go through his trash, even though he had every right to. Tony _was_ guilty, after all, and innocent people don't throw away perfectly good boots—even if they were unfashionable ones bought to go hiking with a girlfriend who had not lasted nearly as long as the boots.

"But," Ducky said, "I highly doubt there were three attackers. Or even two. Rather, I think there is a psychological reason why the killer didn't want to punch Landry in the face."

"He never hit Brian's face," Tony said softly, without thinking.

Tony realized there was no way for him to know that at the same time Kate did. He actually gave her credit for having the balls to ask. "How do you know that, Tony?" she asked, her tone sympathetic rather than accusing. "Brian's friends confirmed that, but I just found that out tonight," she said softly.

And Tony suddenly knew that she knew—well, about his abusive father, at least. _Always was a good profiler, _he thought, steeling himself with a deep breath. He just looked her in the eyes and said quietly, "My father never hit mine."

Those pretty brown eyes went wide, but she didn't say anything.

"So it's like the ring and the photo that was moved," Abby said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "The killer was making a statement."

"That sounds very likely, my dear," Ducky said. He turned to Gibbs. "While Abby was working on the boot prints, I managed to determine an approximate time of death. Landry was killed sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning—I would estimate between midnight and 4 a.m. I wish I could be more specific, but our killer did not make it easy for me, what with turning the air conditioning so low. And, Staff Sergeant Landry's blood alcohol level was .21, very high indeed, considering a reading of .30 can be fatal."

Tony was barely listening to the figures on how much of that bottle of Scotch Landry had consumed because he was watching Abby swallowing hard at the time of death, her posture slumping in her swivel chair. And if he had any lingering doubts that she had wiped the ring for him, if he had thought he was simply projecting, her sad eyes turning on him obliterated those doubts.

But then she simply sat up straighter, those green eyes going steely with determination as she turned to Gibbs. "How did the interviews go?" she asked.

Ducky cast a slightly concerned look at Gibbs when the agent didn't answer. "Have you found any viable suspects?" he tried.

Gibbs pulled his gaze up from the floor. "Got a teacher who knew about the abuse coming in tomorrow morning," Gibbs said, and Tony actually felt bad for the look McGee got at those words.

"Well, then," Ducky said, looking around at the team's tired faces. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Take him home, Duck," Gibbs said, nodding at Tony. He turned to Kate and McGee. "Get out of here, you two. I want everyone back at 0700."

Tony's head jerked up at that, but Gibbs just said, "Not you, DiNozzo. Stay home."

"But Gibbs—"

"Stay. Home." Gibbs shook his head. "Hell, Tony, right now I wish you were half as lazy as you pretend to be."

Tony just shut his mouth, oddly stung by the words. He let Ducky keep a hand on him when he stood shakily, and he didn't shrug it off as the doctor walked him to the door, following behind Kate and McGee. They filed out into the hall, but Tony's impeccable hearing picked up the conversation in the lab, his boss's behavior making it all but an afterthought.

"You didn't order me home, Bossman," Abby said, sounding tired for the first time in Tony's memory. "How come?"

Gibbs' steady response did nothing for Tony's _un_steady legs.

"Because you and I need to talk, Abby."


	22. Chapter 22

McGee really was going to go home.

He had never disobeyed a direct order from Gibbs before and he wasn't going to start now.

But that didn't stop him from turning to Kate in the parking garage. "Can I ask you something?"

"Can you make it quick?" She set her bag on the hood of her car. "I spent the afternoon getting ogled by teenage boys. Innocent teenage boys. Although, I bet some of the thoughts they were obviously thinking would rival DiNozzo's X-rated mind."

McGee hesitated, looking longingly at his car and wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

"Spill, McGee," Kate said. "Gibbs and Tony are acting weird enough. I don't need you being all strange, too."

"You think Gibbs is acting weird?" he asked, tentatively but with a thoughtful frown.

"McGeeeeeee," Kate moaned. "Seriously?" She started to comment but was cut off by McGee's slightly panicked voice.

"Tony asked me for the alarm code at Landry's and I gave it to him," he said in a rush.

He was expecting shock, or for Kate to express the same sick twisting McGee had felt since hearing Gibbs say the alarm hadn't been triggered when Landry was killed.

"Yeah?" Kate said, lifting a shoulder. She cocked her head and gave McGee a look. "And what? You think Tony went there Saturday night and killed Landry?" she said with a little laugh.

But McGee was deadly serious. "You don't?"

"McGee," Kate said, her smile disappearing as her mouth dropped open slightly. "Tony is a lot of things—not all of them entirely pleasant—but he is not a murderer. How could you even think that?"

McGee faltered, wondering why he hadn't just gone to Gibbs and knowing the answer. He was afraid. "The way Tony just flat-out admitted that his father beat him. It's like he didn't even care anymore if we knew."

Kate turned with a sigh and sat on the hood of the silver car. "Abby told me Gibbs spent the weekend with Tony. And then she told me to stop teasing Tony about his rich family, which I'm guessing was her subtle way of saying they talked. Maybe Tony felt better after telling Gibbs and is just tired of hiding."

McGee considered that, wondering if Abby had told Kate more than the agent was letting on.

"So what are you going to do?" Kate asked when it was clear that McGee had no comment.

"About what?" he asked, lost in his thoughts.

Kate rolled her eyes. "You obviously wanted my opinion on whether you should tell Gibbs about the alarm code. I don't think it matters because Tony is not a killer. But you seem to be having some reservations. So what are you going to do?"

"Is it really so bad that I don't know if Tony could have killed him?" McGee asked, sounding pained. "You have to know a person to know what he's capable of. And I don't know Tony at all. What if all that hiding he does is to hide something, well… bad?"

Kate's brown eyes were serious under the dim garage lights. "It is to hide something bad, Tim. He was abused. Repeatedly, from what he said tonight." She shivered, remembering the anguish in Tony's eyes as he had said those words earlier. "Would you rather he showboat and throw out harmless distractions or walk around talking about how his father beat him senseless? Tony can be annoying, yes. But he also has a good heart. The fact that he's a federal agent and not a serial killer is proof of that."

McGee was silent for a moment, unsure how to express his uncertainties without making it sound like he was accusing his partner of being a monster.

"Spill, McGee," Kate said again, looking more and more tired—and impatient.

"Are those distractions really so harmless?" he asked, meeting Kate's eyes. "What if that's more the real Tony? He makes jokes while standing over dead bodies. He teases us mercilessly. He's with a different woman every night. He goes through our stuff," he added, knowing that annoyed Kate more than anything.

Kate just sighed, looking like she really wasn't in the mood for long explanations. "He was a street cop and then a homicide detective, McGee. Those guys see so much horror that it's a wonder they don't all eat their guns after a few years seeing up close and personal what atrocities one person can do to another. The jokes are a coping mechanism—and don't even try to tell me you haven't laughed, or smiled even, at his jokes. Because they take your mind off the senselessness of it all. And who he sleeps with is his business, end of story."

She took a breath, her eyes softening. "And the rest of it? Did you ever think he does that just to get closer to us? It's friendly teasing, McGee, and you laugh at his 'Mc' nicknames all the time. And when he talks about his weekend, don't we always tell him something about ours? The things we say, the way we react to what he says, it's all revealing. He's gathering intel covertly because he never had a normal childhood in which to learn how to do it openly."

McGee felt deflated. And suddenly very guilty. But still, the way Tony had been smiling outside Landry's house that afternoon, when McGee knew his partner had been deeply affected by the boy's suicide, it nagged at him. "I have to tell Gibbs," he said, shaking his head. "I just have to."

Kate picked up her bag and unlocked her car. She tossed the bag into the passenger seat and stood in the doorframe, calling out to McGee's back. "Hey. Aren't you forgetting something?"

He turned back, a little shiver of fear running through him. "I know Gibbs told us to go home," he said. "But I don't think this can wait. Walsh was upset enough over Brian's death, and I would hate myself if I put him through an interrogation when he didn't have anything to do with Landry's murder."

"McGee!" she called when he turned away.

"What, Kate?" he huffed, wondering when she had become such a strong supporter of DiNozzo.

"That's not what I meant," she said, her hands on the roof of her car. "You remember what Gibbs told Tony?"

"Yeah," McGee said impatiently. "To stay h... Oh."

"Yeah," Kate said, shaking her head. "We all know that Tony's in a lot of pain from his shoulder. The shoulder he hurt on Friday night. You know, a day _before_ Landry was killed?"

McGee frowned hard, wondering how he had forgotten that. And wondering something else, too. "Why didn't you just say that?" he asked, feeling stupid and frustrated. "Why ask me all those questions?"

Kate shrugged and gave him a tired grin. "Just wanted to see what you'd say."

He shook his head as she slid into the car, and then he made his way back through the building, wondering if Gibbs was in the squad room or still with Abby. He figured it was also possible his boss had gone home, but McGee doubted it, not with a murderer on the loose—and his team as possible suspects.

McGee paused at the top of the stairs, glad he had taken the longer way to gather his thoughts—because he found not Gibbs but Tony as the sole occupant of the late-night bullpen. The senior agent hadn't noticed him yet, so Tim took a moment to study his partner in the dim lighting.

Tony looked tired.

But that in itself wasn't really surprising because theirs was not an easy, 9-to-5 job and Tim knew if he had time to look in a mirror, he would find the same dark circles under his own eyes. They were the same rings Kate hid better thanks to makeup and McGee figured Gibbs was immune to. But as he stood there, silently watching Tony rub his free hand over his slightly scruffy face, Tim realized he also looked pained.

And McGee doubted it was entirely physical discomfort.

While he was fairly certain of that conjecture, that was only thing Tim was certain about when it came to Tony. He had meant what he said to Kate when he said he didn't know Tony at all. Sure, there were the occasional stories about his childhood, but Tony was such a good liar that Tim was never sure if he could actually believe them. And if Tony the person was a complete conundrum, then DiNozzo the agent was even more confusing. There were days when he couldn't imagine why Gibbs put up with the clowning and the antics—but then DiNozzo would prove his worth with an observation or a theory that proved vital to the case.

It was just how quickly Tony flipped among the personalities like a couch potato channel surfing that bothered Tim. It made a memory surface from a few months after McGee had been permanently assigned to Gibbs' team.

_"I'm not double-dating with you, DiNozzo," McGee grumbled as they walked down the alleyway, flashlights cutting through the chilly air and sweeping the ground as they searched for a shell casing that Gibbs had ordered them to find—and finished that order with: "Or don't come back." _

_"But she's gorgeous, McGoo. Blonde, about 5-10, the prettiest gray-blue eyes I've ever seen. She's a perfect ten," DiNozzo said, crouching to examine a piece of metal his flashlight had picked up. He flicked the bolt aside and grinned up at McGee. "And her friend's not too bad, either." _

_McGee rolled his eyes, and then took a step back to re-sweep the area with the light. Seeing nothing, he glanced over at Tony, who also had his eyes glued to the cold ground. "Great," McGee said, sounding annoyed and disgusted—a feeling a little twinge of something he couldn't quite place. He shook off a shiver that had little to do with the temperature. "You get the pretty blonde and stick me with her behemoth friend, right?" _

_Tony frowned hard and shot a glance at his partner. "She might not be blonde, but she's not a behemoth either. Dark hair, dark eyes—kind of exotic, really. And she's a runner." _

_"So why are you inviting me?" McGee asked, watching Tony stop and stand stock-still, his usual constant movement so completely absent that it was like standing next to a stranger. McGee hoped like hell he had found the shell casing so they could get the hell out of the freezing alley. He wasn't sure if it was Tony's uncharacteristic request, even more unusual stillness or something else, but McGee suddenly felt all hinky. "I'm sure you know plenty of guys who would gladly go impress your girl's friend." _

_Tony turned to him, focusing his flashlight on McGee's chest and looking at him strangely, one eyebrow slightly raised and an odd little smile twisting his lips. "My girl, McGee, complained that we always hang out with her friends," he said, cocking his head to the side as if listening for something. All McGee heard was the chattering of his own teeth. "And she wanted to meet some of mine." _

_McGee's eyes went wide. "You really consider me a f—"_

_The word was cut off as Tony leveled him with a tackle so fast and efficient that McGee suddenly felt bad for every player DiNozzo had ever faced on a football field. The round hit the wall above them, right where McGee's head would have been, and sent a little shower of brick dust down over them. Tim started to shove Tony off of him and was shocked when Tony's arm wrapped around his head and neck, pulling him in closer instead of letting him get up. _

_"Don't move, McGee," Tony whispered, his breath puffing warm across the side of Tim's chilled face. DiNozzo shifted slightly, still staying plastered to Tim's right side, effectively blocking the junior agent from the shooter. "No sense in letting him kill us both." _

_McGee blinked in shock, unsure what to do with a Tony who protected instead of provoked. He swallowed hard, waiting for the crack of the weapon and telltale jerk of his partner's body as the bullet tore through him. _

_But neither came. _

_But there were soft footfalls near the end of the alley. McGee realized they were shielded by a dumpster about halfway down the corridor, and he shoved at Tony again but couldn't get him to move. So he just lay there, DiNozzo's weight pinning him to the cold ground as they listened to those feet stop maybe twenty feet from them. _

_McGee opened his mouth, only to have DiNozzo's icy hand clamp over it. McGee couldn't see his face—couldn't see anything with his own face pressed against his partner's neck—so he just listened as there was a whisper of fabric against pavement and a slight pause, and then the footsteps moving closer to where they lay. _

_"Federal agents!" Tony barked suddenly, not moving anything but his mouth. The steely tone sent more shivers running down Tim's frozen back. "Drop the weapon." _

_There was no clatter of gun meeting pavement, and McGee suddenly felt the weight lifting from his body. He would never know how Tony managed to roll off him and get his chilled limbs to cooperate enough to put three bullets in the shooter before the guy even got off one shot. _

_McGee stood on shaky legs, still unused to the sudden violence that could spring up without warning. He watched DiNozzo move to the downed suspect and kick away the gun that would have killed them both had Tony not been so quick on his feet—and quick-thinking. He watched silently as Tony checked the obviously dead man's pulse and then knelt, opening the corpse's hand to reveal the shell casing they had been searching for all night. _

_"Usually I like it when someone does my job for me," he said wryly, pointing the steady beam of his flashlight up at a still-quivering McGee. "You okay, Probie?" _

_"You saw it," McGee said woodenly. "Right before the shot." _

_Tony nodded. "But I figured tackling you would be more fun." He stood with a little shake of his left hand that made McGee wonder if he had hurt himself during that tackle. But there was no pain in his voice as he continued, as if recounting a date instead of making life and death decisions. "I hoped he would grab the casing and make a run for it." _

_McGee struggled to find his voice, wondering why he sounded almost angry when he did. "And if he grabbed it and made a run for _us?_" he asked sharply. _

_But Tony just shrugged. "I figured I could get him before he got me," he said, lifting a shoulder again. "And if not, I knew you'd get him while he was shooting at me." _

_Tim gaped for a second before shaking his head and grabbing Tony's arm as he turned back to the body. "Shooting _at _you? Or _shooting_ you, Tony? He could have killed you." _

_McGee wasn't expecting the grin. "You heard Gibbs, Probie. Get the casing or don't come back. I guess I was just more scared of Gibbs than of that guy." _

_"This isn't funny, Tony," McGee said. _

_"Then why are you smiling, Timmy?"_

_McGee resisted the urge to lift a hand and check his own face. He felt the smile widen slightly. "Gibbs is pretty scary when he gets mad." _

_Tony laughed and pulled his cell. "You got that right, Oh McWiseOne." He paused, stepped forward and brushed the brick dust out of Tim's hair with a rough tousle. "And of course you're my friend, McGoo. You know, for such a genius, you can be really dense sometimes." _

McGee stood in the dim squad room, that slightly insulting compliment still ringing in his ears, and he half-expected Tony to speak to him through the darkness, even though Tim knew he couldn't see him. But he still didn't know how Tony had seen the shooter in the alley that day either, so he wasn't ruling anything out where DiNozzo was concerned.

_Is that why you're still thinking he might be a murderer?_ a voice whispered to him. _But look at him. See that hand under his elbow? He's clearly hurting. How could he have killed Landry with one good arm? _

The rest of that night in the alley popped up and he realized his brain might have had more than one reason to call up that particular memory. He had never said a word to anyone about it, not even to Tony, but Tim distinctly remembered seeing—and hearing—DiNozzo discreetly popping back into place the thumb he had obviously dislocated during that tackle.

And Tony had done it without a word, no theatrics and no drama—not even a hitch of breath as he calmly walked away to call Gibbs that night.

At the time, Tim had chalked it up to perhaps an old football injury—and the ingrained player's machismo that went hand-in-hand with the sport. But now, remembering Tony's painful admission down in Abby's lab, Tim thought maybe he had been wrong that night.

Those soft words from his partner made McGee remember why he was here right now. Or at least one of the reasons.

He stepped forward, walking as slowly as a condemned man into the bullpen, and approached Tony's desk. He saw DiNozzo immediately wipe the pain from his face and drop his hand from his elbow. McGee was expecting a joke about it being past his bedtime, but Tony did not speak, his eyes unreadable as he stared up at his partner.

"Are you okay, Tony?" he asked, tentatively, wondering why he had asked when he wasn't expecting a straight answer in return.

"Tired," Tony said, the half-truth making McGee remember that trying to anticipate DiNozzo was about as futile as trying to put out a forest fire with gasoline: It was just bound to blow up in your face.

McGee frowned. "I thought Ducky was taking you home."

"He got a call from another team. They're bringing in a body." Tony's pale cheeks picked up a hint of color. "I told him I'd catch up with you or Kate."

McGee's frown deepened. "But you didn't. How are you going to get home? Because Gibbs will kill you if he catches you up here."

Tony lifted his good shoulder. "I can drive myself. I've still got one good arm."

Tim forcibly shoved away images of other things Tony might be able to do with one good arm. "And when Gibbs found out you drove yourself home?"

The smile on Tony's face was too complicated for McGee to even begin to unravel. "You gonna rat me out, Tim?"

The use of his given name had McGee about as shaken as the knowing look in DiNozzo's eyes. "No," McGee said slowly. "I'm going to take you home. Come on."

Tony was silent and still for a moment before standing so carefully McGee almost reached out to him. But Tim didn't touch him as he followed the senior agent to the elevator.

McGee moved to push the down button, but Tony's hand caught his wrist midway there. He looked up into intense green eyes and was reminded again of the steel in DiNozzo's voice that night in the alley.

"Tell him, Tim," Tony said softly, not releasing him but easing up on the pressure on his wrist. "You know you need to tell him."

McGee blinked in shock, his eyes full of questions.

Tony dropped his hand and smiled softly. "You didn't come up here looking for me, McGoo," he said, the nickname calming Tim more than he would have admitted—just as it had that night in the alley. "You came looking for Gibbs. So just tell him about the alarm code. It's okay."

McGee straightened. "I know you couldn't have killed Landry, Tony. Not with your shoulder that bad," he said, knowing he should be adding that it was also because he believed Tony wasn't a killer, but he was still too confused by it all to do it.

Tony's face gave away nothing, and neither did his even tone. "But it's still pertinent information on an active case. I don't need you to quote me the passage from the handbook to know that you feel like you need to tell Gibbs."

McGee huffed softly, turning away and staring at the ground for a moment, wishing Tony would be angry with him. He looked up, meeting tired green eyes. "I'm just worried about you, Tony," he said, trying not to sound as exasperated and confused as he felt. "I mean, you rarely give anyone straight answers even one-on-one and then you just flat-out admit that your father … hurt you to the entire team? It's like you don't even care anymore if we know."

Tony studied him for a long pause. Then he asked softly, "But haven't you always known?" He smiled the saddest smile Tim had ever seen. "Hasn't everyone?"

Kate's explanations in Brian's bedroom on Friday suddenly flashed through his head—along with Ducky's pointed question that day and memories of Abby's subtle protectiveness around Tony during certain cases and Gibbs' extra grumpiness after walking in on the Christmas conversation. Thinking back to that cold night in the alley, McGee had to wonder if he had really bought his own explanation of an old football injury—or if it had been what he wanted to believe.

With thoughts of Tony glued to his side—protecting his partner with his life, if he had to—Tim reached out and pressed the down button.

"I don't need to tell Gibbs anything," he said firmly, "because I know you, Tony. And I know you're not a cold-blooded killer."


	23. Chapter 23

Gibbs firmly shut the door to the lab and turned back, thinking it wouldn't take more than his usual glare to get the Goth talking.

He was wrong.

Abby just stared back, her usually expressive green eyes shuttered up tight as the Louisiana coast during a hurricane.

Gibbs waited.

And Abby caved—sort of.

"Is this about my last tattoo?" she asked, only a hint of humor in her voice. "Because, one, it's only offensive if you're an alien, and two, I'm not even going to ask how you saw it."

All Gibbs could think of was how Tony-like the reaction was. "What aren't you telling me, Abby?"

"I tell you everything, Bossman," she said, sounding wounded. She brightened again, as if by sheer force of will. "I'll even tell you that I had a beer before I got that tattoo. I know, I know, you're not supposed to, but I had some time to kill before my appointment and—"

"Abby!"

The harsh tone was one that DiNozzo had heard many times. Abby had not—especially not directed at her. Gibbs expected her to crumble, to spill forth in a babble of words whatever evidence she was hiding to protect one of the team—

One _of the team, Jethro? Really? _

—and then beg his forgiveness while black tears streaked down her face. But she simply stared back at him, the forced exuberance gone, replaced by that steely determination again.

"Okay, so it's not the tattoo," she said slowly. She lifted a shoulder. "So what is it, Gibbs? You're the mind-reader. Not me."

Gibbs hoped whoever she was covering for knew just how much he meant to her.

_Whoever? And you know he doesn't. For a smart guy, he's completely oblivious to the idea that someone might actually care about him. _

Gibbs put the thoughts aside. "Never thought I'd have to remind you that withholding evidence is a crime, Abbs," he said, knowing he sounded disappointed by the flash of agony on her face.

She lifted her chin. "I'm not withholding a damned thing, Gibbs. And I don't appreciate the accusation. If you have something to say to me, say it. If you have something to ask me? Ask it. But don't you dare stand there and talk to me like that without telling me exactly what you think I did to deserve it."

He blinked, having forgotten this side of Abby. Anyone who didn't know her, seeing only the black lipstick and chains and spikes and skulls, would probably expect her to be this deadly serious, defiant creature. But to Gibbs, she was just Abby—sweet, smart, too talkative but frighteningly efficient, dedicated to justice Abby.

There was only one reason he could think of why she would lie to his face like this. And even the thought of that reason had him reeling.

He steadied his thoughts and simply ordered, "I want to hear every minute of your night out with Tony on Saturday."

"Well, that's going to be a problem, Gibbs," she said, shaking her head. "Because I wasn't with him the entire night."

Gibbs' stomach dropped through the floor at that, but he kept his face impassive. His strong reaction wasn't only because Tony had time unaccounted for that night—it was because he believed Abby. And because faced with her truthfulness, the earnestness in her voice, he knew without a doubt that she was lying about not withholding something.

Abby smiled without a trace of humor. "And when I wasn't with him, a pretty little blonde was. I didn't get her name, but I'm sure Tony did. And her number." The smile turned slightly toward genuine. "And her cup size. She was exactly the kind of girl who would win an entry in his little black book. I was mostly watching the band, but I saw them talking at the bar and then I saw them head into the men's room. And then I saw them come out four songs later, which, considering the average Brain Matter song is four and half minutes long, means approximately eighteen minutes."

Gibbs was silent, shoving away thoughts of Tony having sex with a stranger in a public bathroom. He was more concerned with the cold fury in Abby's eyes—and he stayed silent, knowing she wasn't done.

"So eighteen minutes for Tony to leave, run across town, brutally murder someone, and come back," she said, the lascivious grin contrasting sharply with the coldness in her eyes. "And then there's all that time needed to fuck little miss poser in a bathroom stall. And if Tony's stories are to be believed, that's not nearly enough time for him to get the job done, if you know what I mean. Hell, maybe he just tied her up and threatened to kill her if she talked. Just like he killed Landry. Right, Gibbs?"

She continued, not letting him speak. "Or you know, maybe I'm lying," she said, unblinking. "Maybe I helped Tony slaughter Landry that night. I mean, I _am_ always saying how I can kill someone without leaving a trace. But you know, I was drinking that night, so maybe that's why I shoved that K-Bar through his heart—because really, that's definitely leaving a trace, right?"

"Abby," Gibbs said, holding up a hand and just wanting her to stop the onslaught. "I never said—"

"You didn't have to say a word, Gibbs," she said coldly. "Don't insult me by thinking I'm not smart enough to know what you're thinking when you come down here and ask me for Tony's alibi. McGee might be impressed with your Jedi mind tricks, Bossman, but I always know what you're thinking."

He stared at her, wondering if she really did. "What am I thinking now?"

She about leveled him with her piercing stare—and her words. "You're wondering if I can be trusted." That would have been enough to floor him, but she did him one better. "You know I was hungover the next morning, and you're wondering if maybe I got a little hazy. Maybe I lost track of songs and maybe Tony had more time with blondie than I thought. Or maybe I'm lying through my teeth right now."

He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

She cocked her head at him and finally let some of her anguish show in her eyes. "Why don't you just go ask him, Gibbs? Make him tell you everything—and make him give you the girl's number when you don't believe him. I mean, sure, it'll hurt him. Your trust means everything to him, and we all know that. But go ask him, Gibbs—if you haven't already. It'll hurt a hell of a lot less than if he finds out you're investigating him behind his back."

He regarded her silently for a long moment and then said, "There's something you're not telling me, Abby. I don't know what it is, or what you're doing—but I hope to hell that you do."

The devastation was quickly masked, covered with a hard, tight smile. "Go ask your questions, Gibbs," she said, sounding exhausted even though it wasn't anywhere near late by her standards. "But while you're asking? Ask yourself this: How exactly did Tony kill that Marine after _you_ dislocated his shoulder on Friday?"

Gibbs stopped short, swallowing both his guilt and his shock at her tone. But then he simply walked out of the lab, certain of only one thing.

They were both hiding something from him.

* * *

Tony let McGee walk him all the way down to his car. But then he stopped.

"I think I'll drive myself home, McGee. I really don't want to leave my car here any longer."

"Tony—"

"It's a classic, Probie," he said, looking longingly at his beloved car. "It might not start if I just leave it sitting there, all sad and lonely—"

"Tony, you're hurt, tired and on painkillers. The car can wait," he said, his tone more Gibbs-like than McGee-ish.

Tony sighed and opened his mouth to protest.

"And Gibbs will kill me if you kill yourself trying to drive home," McGee said, sounding more normal. "Please?"

Tony looked back toward the building, wondering how to get out of this. McGee was right—he was tired. But it wasn't just sleep that he needed. "I'll be fine, McGee," he said, straightening determinedly. "Besides, I forgot my wallet," he added lamely and started back inside, hoping McGee wouldn't drag him to the car.

But a glance back showed McGee rolling his eyes and saying, knowingly, "Tell Abby I said thanks."

Tony smiled and went with it, nodding as McGee got in his car to leave. He wasn't going to see Abby. He had no idea what to say to her—how to thank her and berate her at the same time for lying for him. _For destroying evidence_ for him. Honestly, Tony was tired. And he couldn't take the lying anymore—not with McGee willing to lie by omission to Gibbs for him and Abby willing to do it outright.

He couldn't drag them down with him, didn't want to put anyone else in danger for his mistakes. He had made his choices thinking he wouldn't get caught—and knowing he would face whatever came if he did.

It was time.

He needed to find Gibbs.


	24. Chapter 24

Gibbs needed advice.

And there was only one place he could go to get it.

"Jethro! I thought you'd gone home for the evening," Ducky called, pulling a liver that had seen better days from the corpse on his table. "If you're worried about young Anthony, he said he would catch a ride with Caitlyn or Timothy."

"Not his ride home I'm worried about, Duck."

The doctor blinked in surprise at the admission of concern. He turned to Jimmy. "Mr. Palmer, I dare say we can finish up with our guest in the morning. Run along and tell Christopher that unless he can find a way to snap handcuffs on a lifetime of cheeseburgers and fries, then he has no reason to suspect foul play."

"Right away, Doctor," Jimmy said, practically fleeing gratefully at the dark look on Gibbs' face. "Uh, good night, Agent Gibbs."

The young man fled before Gibbs could even nod in acknowledgment. "Need some advice, Duck," Gibbs said, softly—and hating making that admission.

Ducky nodded and went to the sink to wash his hands, casting worried glances over his shoulder at the pacing agent as he did so. He wiped his hands on a towel, shot it into the open garbage bin and gave a satisfied little smile. And then he turned to Gibbs.

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't about Anthony's stubborn refusal to consent to surgery?"

Gibbs shot him a look. "What makes you think I've talked to him about it?"

Ducky smiled. "If you were solely upset about his physical well-being, you wouldn't look quite so angry. But you are concerned for him," he added, frowning thoughtfully.

"They lied to me, Duck," Gibbs bit out tersely. "Both of them."

"Tony lied to you? About what?" Ducky asked. "And both of whom? I'm afraid I've missed something here."

Gibbs stopped pacing and studied Ducky's face. "You don't think Abby was acting… off?"

Ducky put his hand on his chin, his bent elbow in the crook of his other arm. "She seemed tense," he recalled. He shook his head. "But I gathered it was from her worry over Tony—his injury and his mental well-being. She knows much more about his painful childhood than the rest of us combined, I believe. But you think something else is going on with her?"

"She's hiding something," Gibbs said, sinking tiredly down into a chair. "And when I asked her about it, she flat-out lied to me."

Ducky's eyes went wide. "That doesn't sound like Abigail at all. What is it that she is hiding?"

"Wish I knew."

The doctor's shock at that was a little better-hidden. "And you don't know what Anthony is hiding, either?"

Gibbs was silent.

Ducky nodded. "But you think it's related," he guessed.

Gibbs stared at the floor.

Ducky nodded again. "This is about what Tony said at Staff Sergeant Landry's, isn't it?" He didn't wait for a confirmation, verbal or otherwise. "You don't honestly think one of your team killed the man, do you, Jethro?"

"Don't know what to think," Gibbs said after a moment.

"Your people are not killers," Ducky said succinctly.

Gibbs did not speak.

"If I were even going to entertain this nonsense logically," Ducky said, frowning hard, "then Anthony is the most likely choice, given his near confrontation with the man—and his own history of abuse. But there is no way he could have overpowered Landry, given the damage to his shoulder that was sustained Friday evening. But given that look on your face right now… Jethro, do you really think Tony killed him?"

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his face. "All I know is they're both lying to me, and I can't think of any other reason why." He paused. "I need to know if I need to talk to the director, to call in another team on this." He met Ducky's eyes. "I need to know if you think Tony could have killed Landry."

"If he even could have, physically," Ducky said again. "He sat in this very room on Friday afternoon, and I felt the swelling in his shoulder—it was minor, indeed. And if that had been the only injury, I might have to concur that he could have killed a Marine such as the staff sergeant. But that _wasn't_ the only damage done, Jethro. You called me to the gym, and we helped him down here together. He was in obvious pain—I know you felt him shaking, just as I did. There is simply no way he could have murdered someone with that serious an injury. He wouldn't even let me touch him."

Gibbs gave him a pointed look, and all Ducky could think to say was, "Oh my."

But then Gibbs shook his head.

"Except that I _felt_ the dislocation on Sunday, when I popped it back in for him…"

The blood drained from Gibbs' face, and he looked so sick that Ducky almost offered him a basin.

"Jethro," Ducky said cautiously. "What are you thinking?"

"Dammit, Duck," he said, managing to look angry and horrified at the same time. "Tony dislocated his own shoulder. He _hurt himself_, Ducky. He must have done it Saturday night—while Abby was asleep. Unless she knew and—"

"Jethro!"

Gibbs stopped, blinked hard at the doctor and realized he had been talking a mile a minute. But the thought of Tony inflicting that much pain on himself—_intentionally_—had his head reeling. "No, you're right. She didn't know. She wouldn't let him do … that … to himself. She wouldn't. Which means she found out after the fact. I thought she was withholding eviden—"

"Jethro!" Ducky exclaimed, stepping closer and laying a calming hand on the agent's shoulder, which was trembling ever so slightly. "All this conjecture is only relevant if Anthony actually killed Landry. Do you honestly think he could commit premeditated murder?"

"No," Gibbs said automatically—and then seemed slightly surprised by it. He huffed a soft breath, looking more tired than could be attributed to a lack of sleep. "You know how I feel about coincidences."

Ducky simply nodded.

"And Abby admitted she wasn't with him the entire night on Saturday. Your TOD says Landry was killed between midnight and 0400, and Abby never leaves those clubs before three. He had time to sneak out and do it."

Ducky was frowning hard and studying his longtime friend's face. But he did not speak.

"Spit it out, Duck," Gibbs said, not unkindly.

Ducky was silent a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Your initial, immediate reaction was that Anthony is not a killer. That is my belief, as well. And yet you're still having doubts, still measuring the evidence against him. You realize it cannot be both ways, don't you?" He paused, not liking the half-sick look still on Gibbs' face. "What is it, Jethro? What are you keeping from _me_?"

Gibbs closed his eyes. "He spent most of the weekend telling me things about his childhood… Disgusting, painful memories of his abuse. I thought it was just him trusting me and opening up to me, or the painkillers, or the pain of his injury bringing back those bad memories. And I felt… I felt horrible, Ducky, because I was the one who had hurt him. He was jumpy all day Saturday, and I thought it was because he was uncomfortable with me in his space, his home. And he was baiting me, on Friday," Gibbs said, the words flowing as he thought out loud. "I couldn't figure out why at the time, but what if he knew I'd take him down to the gym? I know I hurt him at Landry's—but what if that just gave him the idea? We didn't wear gloves. His knuckles are just as scraped and swollen as mine."

Gibbs looked down at his hands and then turned anguished eyes back up to Ducky. "What if he went to Landry's just to scare him? Or just to beat the shit out of him to show him how it felt? Hell, I understand that—I thought about doing it myself." Gibbs paused, his eyes closing again. "But what if he couldn't stop? What if he started beating on Landry and the memories of his own abuse were just too much for him to stop? Landry could have pulled the knife, surprised him."

The agent stopped short, his face losing what remained of its color. "There was a broken lamp on the floor. With a square base—just like Tony's kitchen table."

Ducky's frown was more confused this time, but Gibbs didn't need for him to ask.

"Maybe Tony turned to leave," Gibbs said, his breathing picking up slightly. "He didn't get dizzy and fall into his table. Landry broke his rib with that lamp. Maybe Landry pulled the knife then. Tony could have had no choice but to kill him, in self-defense."

"Slow down," Ducky said, knowing it was Gibbs' shock and fear—and uncertainty—making him so suddenly loquacious. "You are still assuming he did this, Jethro. That is not like you at all."

"The photo, Duck," Gibbs said, shaking his head. "When we got to Landry's this morning, Tony was the one who noticed the photo had been moved. He turned white as a sheet and about fell over. I thought it was his shoulder again, but it was because he moved it—and realized his prints were still on it. That's what Abby was withholding. She knows he was there."

"Gibbs," Ducky said firmly. "_You _don't even know that he was there. This is all conjecture—after you admitted that you don't think Tony is a killer."

Gibbs continued as if he hadn't heard. "Tony killed Landry. And then he went home with Abby, waited for her to go to bed, and then, hell, Ducky… He forced his own shoulder out of the socket to sell his cover. How could he hurt himself like that? It's sick."

Their eyes met, and Ducky found himself following Gibbs' thinking perfectly. It made him realize what a leader Gibbs was—and glad that the agent rarely unraveled like this.

"It is possible that Anthony went there simply to confront Landry," Ducky said, not sounding particularly certain about that. "If he was so deeply entrenched in the memories of his own childhood abuse, it is possible that he killed Landry, suffered some sort of break, and doesn't remember committing the actual murder. But Jethro, if that is the case, then our Anthony is one very sick young man."

"I can assure you I'm not sick," Tony said, stepping into autopsy just in time to hear Ducky's statement. He smiled a humorless smile. "Maybe a little queasy from the painkillers. But I didn't snap and kill Landry." He chuckled without mirth. "Or at least I don't think I did. But I guess that's kind of the point you were making, Doctor, wasn't it?"

Ducky reached out and wasn't surprised in the least when Tony moved easily away. "I am so sorry, Anthony. We never meant for you—"

"To walk in on this little pow-wow?" Tony finished for him, his eyes hard as he turned to Gibbs. "You want to move this up to an interrogation room, Boss? Or would you rather just snap the cuffs on me right here?"

Gibbs held up a hand. "Tony, don't—"

"Don't what?" Tony snapped. "Ask you what I did to deserve being called a cold-blooded murderer? Should I thank you for throwing in there that I might be batshit crazy and maybe I didn't _mean _to do it?"

"Anthony, calm down," Ducky said firmly, watching the injured agent hug his damaged arm close to his heaving chest. "We are simply worried about you—"

"Yeah, Doctor, I got that," Tony interrupted, backing farther away from Ducky. "You're worried I might be a damned crazed killer."

"That's enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs barked, rising and approaching his agent. He pushed aside the Landry crime-scene photos on the unoccupied autopsy table and made Tony sit—using a glare, not his hands. "Calm down before you hurt yourself."

Their eyes met at those words, and Tony's smile made Gibbs' stomach turn again.

"So you figured that part out," Tony said, suddenly deadly calm. "Anything else you want to know before you haul me off to jail? Even though you're so sure I killed him, I'm sure your curiosity is about killing you right now, Gibbs. What details do you want to know?"

Gibbs gaped, unsure what Tony was even admitting to. He felt sick, and shamed, and confused—and angry. The anger was welcome because he could use it to block out the horror he felt actually knowing Tony had hurt himself—and god knows what else he had done.

"So did you tongue the pain pills Ducky gave you or have you just been faking the reactions in case you ever needed an out?"

If Tony was surprised by the question, he didn't show it. He simply asked, "You think I'm that devious?"

Gibbs, still shocked by Tony's half-admission, snapped out, "I don't know what you are, DiNozzo."

Tony was silent for a long moment, his eyes completely unreadable. Finally, softly, he asked, "Haven't you ever wanted retribution, Gibbs?"

The memories came before Gibbs could even try to stop them: _Blood on the windshield of the twisted wreckage of the vehicle; lying on a ridge in Mexico; more blood—but on a different window in a different vehicle. _

He saw Ducky eyeing them both, but the doctor stayed silent. Gibbs got right in Tony's face. "Tell me exactly what you know, DiNozzo, and don't you dare lie to me this time."

Tony, still sitting on the autopsy table with nowhere to go, just stared back, looking confused. "Know about what, Gibbs?"

"My wife and my daughter," Gibbs growled. "And the man who killed them."

Tony blinked at his boss's dangerous tone. "I only knew about your daughter, Gibbs," he said, ignoring the shock on Ducky's face. "I told you that. I wouldn't lie to you."

"But you would fake an injury and beat a man who just lost a child senseless," Gibbs snarled, still seething.

"I never touched his face," Tony said, confused by the hostility and not understanding what it had to do with Landry. He realized Gibbs really did think he had killed Landry—that Tony was no better than the scum who had killed his wife and daughter. Tony about threw up, but he shook his head and said firmly, "He was fine—bruised, sure—but he was breathing when I left."

He had to look away from Gibbs' sparking blue eyes—and his own landed on the pile of crime-scene photos on the table next to him. He picked up the photo of the knife's gouge in the wall and slapped it down on the shiny metal surface, sliding out of range of his furious boss but looking him dead in the eyes.

"_That's_ where I left Landry's K-Bar Saturday night."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and Gibbs recovered first. "So you admit to being there."

Tony didn't answer Gibbs' question out loud. He didn't need to. And he was expecting shock and anger—and disappointment.

But all he got was the anger.

"How am I supposed to believe that you would go there, hell-bent on making the man pay because you were drowning in the memories of your own pain, and you just stopped? You knocked him around a bit to show him how it felt. And then you just left? Come on, DiNozzo. You're lying to me right now. You know exactly what I did to the man who killed Shannon and Kelly. I got my retribution, Tony, and now you want me to believe you didn't get yours?"

"Jethro—"

"Gibbs—"

Gibbs ignored the wide-eyed shock on both of their faces. "I did what I did, and I'd do it again. Gladly. Now I need to know exactly what happened that night, Tony," he said, his voice low and calm. "So I can protect you."

Tony laughed shakily. "What is this? You showed me yours, now I show you mine? I did not kill Landry."

The calmness on Gibbs' face—after he just admitted to murder, to a revenge killing no less—suddenly hit Tony like a ton of bricks. "Oh fuck, Boss," he breathed. "From the second you got that call, I thought Landry killed himself to frame me, because he was too much of a coward to face what he had done to his son. I thought he did the damage to himself. I thought Abby wiped the ring to protect me. But I was wrong. Landry didn't kill himself. And I sure as hell didn't kill him."

He looked Gibbs in the eyes, finding nothing but calm blue. "But you did."


	25. Chapter 25

Gibbs gaped like a fish out of water.

"I didn't kill Landry," he finally managed.

"Well, neither did I," Tony said, looking up to find Abby sweeping into the chilled air of autopsy with a smile on her face and a bagged K-Bar in hand.

"Landry did," she said, beaming.

"Did what?" Gibbs asked.

"Killed Landry," Abby said, still grinning. She held up the knife and walked up to Ducky. "I realized something. The knife wasn't wiped—it was a case of too many prints instead of the usual no prints. If 'the killer' had stabbed Landry," she said, making one-sided finger quotes and putting the knife to Ducky's chest, "then his prints would have been on the sides of the handle, here. Or if he had shoved it in, palm on the hilt, like this, then 'the killer's' palm print would have been on the bottom of the handle. And they were. I mean, it was. Except that 'the killer' was Landry—whose palm print I found on the bottom of the handle." She flipped the knife around, placing the point against her lab coat, her palm against the bottom.

"He killed himself," Ducky said, looking from Gibbs to Tony. "That's why there were no punches to his face—he didn't want to risk fresh damage to his knuckles. He tried to frame you for his own suicide, Anthony."

"It's why he turned the AC down," Gibbs said, seeing Tony's pale face and pushing him gently into Ducky's chair. "You told him you had an alibi, and he was trying to mess with it."

"It also solves the mystery of the blood wiped from the doorframe," Ducky said, knowing he couldn't fuss over Tony's stunned trembling without making it worse. "He was trying to hide the fact that the damage to his face was self-inflicted."

"I knew he moved the photo," Tony said slowly.

And Gibbs realized he had been wrong about that—wrong about a lot of things. He knew an apology was going to be necessary, but he didn't think Tony was in any shape to hear it right now.

"It's why he left the ring on the desk," Abby said quietly, her eyes on Tony's wide ones.

But it was Gibbs who spoke. "You wiped Tony's prints from that ring," he said, no accusation in his voice, only understanding.

Abby didn't get a chance to respond, because Tony was suddenly on his feet, his free hand on her shoulder, gripping tightly. "Why did you do that, Abby?" he asked, sounding strangled. "How could you risk—"

"Hey," she said softly, reaching up for his hand. She moved him back to the chair and made him sit before kneeling in front of him, still holding his trembling hand in hers. "Because I know you didn't kill him. Hell, Tony, I knew that even before I could prove it."

Ducky gave a soft smile—and pretended to ignore Gibbs'—at the strength of the bond between the two in front of him.

But Tony still looked sick. "But Abby," he said, his voice barely audible. "You _can't_ prove that I didn't."

She sighed, still squeezing his hand. "As a scientist, I will now say that you're right," she said, giving him a lopsided smile. "Because you cannot prove a negative. But I'm not talking as a scientist right now, Tony. I'm speaking as your friend. You didn't kill Landry. I know that—because I know you. And that's all the proof I need."

She reached up to kiss his cheek and was shocked when he stood, all but running away from her gentle touch.

"Don't, Abby," he said harshly. "I may not have stabbed him, but he's still dead because of me. If I hadn't gone there and rubbed in his face what he did to his son, he would still be alive. I deserve whatever's coming to me."

"Anthony," Ducky scolded, beating Gibbs by a half-second. "Suicide is not something one does on a whim. He must have been seriously considering it to actually go through with the act that night. And his son's death by his own hand would be the more likely motivator—no matter what you said to him."

There was hope in Tony's eyes at those words—and a strong dose of skepticism, too.

But then Abby spoke up. "You guys never hear me out, you know that? I wasn't done yet," she said, reaching into her lab coat and pulling on gloves. She then pulled a small leather-bound book from her other pocket and flipped through several pages. "I was so busy with prints and fibers that I didn't have time to do more than glance through this. But then I really started reading it. Listen. 'I did it again tonight. I hurt my boy. I can't even explain why I do it, but I know I have to stop. But I just can't. I know there's one way to end it all, but I'm too much of a coward to do it. Not tonight. But someday I will. And Brian will be better off without me.' "

She closed the book and blinked tears out of her eyes. "There are at least twenty entries like that one." She looked at Gibbs. "When you cancel Walsh's interview tomorrow, you should tell him it wasn't just his call to Social Services that drove the boy to kill himself."

Ducky nodded knowingly. "You found Brian's prints on that diary, didn't you?"

She nodded solemnly, the implications of that too much to give voice to right then.

Tony was the first to break the silence, his gaze moving from Abby to Ducky and finally landing on Gibbs when he asked, "Is this enough? To prove I didn't kill him?"

And Gibbs knew what he was being asked. "I know you didn't kill him, Tony," he said, watching relief flood the tired green eyes watching him so intently.

"I know it, too," Abby said. "And not just because I believe in you, Tony. The last entry in the diary reads, 'I couldn't stop. I couldn't save him. But maybe God will grant me mercy so I can be with him.' "

Gibbs looked from the book to Ducky. "Why would he admit to killing himself if he was trying to frame DiNozzo?"

But Abby answered first. "He was drunk as a skunk, Bossman," she said, shrugging. "The handwriting's all shaky, but it's definitely his—see the little squiggles on the 'A's?"

"It is also not a blatantly written 'I'm going to kill myself tonight,' " Ducky said. "Perhaps he didn't realize the finality with which those statements resound." He turned to face Tony, putting a hand on his bone-white cheek. "Listen to me, Anthony. While I am not certain that I agree with your decision to teach the man a lesson, you have to know that you are in no way responsible for his death. He is the one who made the decision to plunge that knife into his chest—no one else. Do you understand me?"

Tony nodded mutely, still looking positively ill. And Ducky could understand why—he still had Jethro's admission of murder ringing loudly in his ears, too. But now was not the time to deal with those questions.

"Now, with our mystery solved at this late, late hour," Ducky said. "I believe we should get ourselves some rest—for tomorrow will bring new challenges, new mysteries, and also the wrapping up of this one. Go on, all of you. And someone see to it that Anthony gets home safely."

"I got him, Duck," Gibbs said, a firm hand under Tony's good arm as he helped the trembling agent to the door.

Tony wished he could blame his shakes on pain, exhaustion or the pills he had downed with Gibbs' coffee earlier. But he knew he couldn't. He also couldn't figure out why he seemed to be the only one thinking clearly. While he figured they thought he was safely off the hook for Landry's murder, he couldn't help shivering as he looked back at the stack of photos on Ducky's shiny table.

He knew it would only be a matter of time before the evidence surfaced that they all seemed to have forgotten.


	26. Chapter 26

Tony was about to collapse by the time they reached his apartment—and Gibbs obviously knew it, judging by the arm across his agent's back and the hand under his elbow as he steered him to the couch.

Tony dropped immediately, wincing at the pain and muttering a groggy, " 'M sorry, Gibbs."

"Been a hell of a long day, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Don't worry about it."

"Gonna be a longer one tomorrow," Tony said, his eyes popping open as he realized the thought had found its way out of his mouth. He found Gibbs watching him with an expression he couldn't quite place.

"Guess that answers that question," Gibbs said, his even tone not providing any clues to an increasingly sleepy, spacey Tony.

"What question?" he asked, too exhausted for guessing and feeling unnervingly stripped of his usual masks. He suddenly wondered if he would ever be able to lie to Gibbs again—and realized he never wanted to.

"Whether you fake the reactions to the painkillers," Gibbs answered softly.

And Tony suddenly understood the look. He decided to cut himself some slack, not only because he was tired and in pain but also because he had never seen Gibbs look guilty before. "An apology, Boss?" He raised an eyebrow. "I figured it would be me begging your forgiveness tonight."

Gibbs was already shaking his head. "I know why you did what you did."

"And you're okay with it?" Tony asked, forcing himself to sit up. He propped his elbow on bent knees. "I attacked a suspect in an active investigation. I used half the team to do—to cover it up. I used _you_, Gibbs. I lied to you—"

"Enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his tone hard but his eyes soft. "It's late. Go get some sleep."

But Tony wasn't done. "I used Abby. I risked her—"

"Did you take her with you?

Tony glared.

"Did you ask her to wipe that ring for you?"

"Of course not," Tony said, stung that Gibbs could even think he would have.

And Gibbs saw it. "I know," he said. "And I know about your little blonde friend. You'd never ask Abby to lie for you."

Tony blinked, hugging his injured arm to his chest and looking up at Gibbs in confusion. "You're really not pissed at me?" he asked, disbelieving.

Gibbs stared back steadily. "I'm so mad I can't think straight, DiNozzo," he said, his low volume belying that strong emotion. "But you're exhausted and hurting enough. Go to bed. We'll talk tomorrow."

Tony didn't move. "So you understand it, but you're still mad?" he said, as if seeking clarification.

Gibbs' small store of patience ran dry and his eyes were blazing as he tried not to yell. "Hell no, I don't understand it." He took a calming breath that did little to calm him. "How could you do that?"

"I…" he started, curling tighter into himself. "You're gonna have to be more specific, Boss. How could I go there? Beat him up? Lie to you?"

Gibbs' gaze was steady again—but tinged with some pain Tony didn't understand.

Until he spoke.

"You really think that's why I'm pissed?" Gibbs asked softly. And then he smiled sadly and shook his head. "Of course you do."

"Gibbs…?"

Gibbs took a breath and forced himself not to shout. "You dislocated your own shoulder, Tony," he said, the words slightly strained. When he didn't get a response, he looked around and said, "Right here in this apartment, right? On Saturday night."

"Boss," Tony said, wincing. "I'm sorry I let you think you caused the damage. I know you felt bad, and—"

"_Tony," _Gibbs said, stepping closer. "You still don't get it, do you? I did feel guilty for hurting you—and I did hurt you, at Landry's. I'm sorry for that."

He ignored his agent's shock at the rare apology and moved even closer, sitting on the arm of the couch and putting a firm hand on Tony's good shoulder. "And I'm sorry for everything that was done to you to make you look so damned confused right now." He lowered his hand and let Tony scoot sideways, safely out of his reach. "I'm upset because you hurt yourself—and that you don't see anything wrong with that. That you think causing yourself that much pain is no big deal. That's why I'm pissed, Tony."

"Oh," Tony said after a moment, unsure what to do with the raw concern in his boss's eyes. He noticed that Gibbs looked uncomfortable, too, and Tony waited for the rest.

Finally, Gibbs looked him in the eyes and said, "It's not okay, Tony. And I don't ever want you to hurt yourself like that again."

Tony winced at the sadness in the blue eyes watching him. He nodded, a hand moving to his suddenly queasy belly. "I don't feel so great," he said, making no move to get up even though he felt like he was going to puke. It didn't matter: It was his floor, after all.

Gibbs frowned at him. "Probably because coffee and painkillers make a lousy dinner. Stay here," he ordered, getting up and heading into the kitchen.

Tony obeyed—mostly because he figured he'd fall over if he tried to get up. He heard Gibbs rummaging and he let his mind wander. And then he stopped short, realizing he had almost forgotten about the evidence that would no doubt surface in the morning. His nausea returned in triplicate and he tried desperately to think of anything else.

Gibbs set a plate of reheated stew in front of him, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"Eat slow," he said, balancing his own plate on his knee as he sat beside Tony. "It's not as good the second time around. Trust me."

Tony gave him a feeble smile, deciding not to question Gibbs' kindness—or spill his own guilty guts. It had been a while—a long while, if he was honest with himself—since someone had taken care of him, and while it might not be smart, Tony decided to try to just go with it.

While it lasted.

"Thanks, Boss," he said between forkfuls. "Did I tell you this is really good?"

"Only about twenty times," Gibbs said, a ghost of a smile on his face. He found DiNozzo studying him after a moment and said, "Surprised you don't have questions for me."

It took Tony a moment to realize what he was talking about, and when he did, he just shook his head slowly. "What you lost, Gibbs… I would have lost my mind."

"Think I did for a while," Gibbs said quietly. "But I'd still do what I did if I had the choice." He got up. "You want a beer?"

He turned back to the silence and studied Tony's pale face. "Right," he said. "Bad idea."

Gibbs returned with a beer and a glass of water, which Tony took with a grateful half-smile.

"You can stop looking at me like that," Tony said after a moment. "I'm not gonna call the cops and rat you out, Gibbs. I meant it when I said I understood what you did." He was quiet a moment, sinking back into the couch cushions and closing his eyes. "At least what you did made sense."

Tony didn't need to see Gibbs' face or hear the actual question.

"I should have gone to New York and put a bullet in my father's head for what he did to me," Tony said softly. His eyes blinked open and he glanced at Gibbs' impassive face. "I won't. I'm not even sure I'd want to. But when I was standing there on Friday, looking down at Brian's face—the only evidence of the violence that was his life that hole in his head… I wondered why he took his shirt off. Why commit that pointless little act of defiance?"

Gibbs didn't have an answer for him.

Tony bit his lip, then said, "I was _mad_ at him. Sure, I was pissed that everyone around him either ignored or completely missed what was probably staring them in the face the whole time. But I was also mad at him. Because he couldn't just hang on a little bit longer and see that there's life after all that pain—away from his father."

"Not much point in being pissed at a dead kid," Gibbs observed, showing his understanding without having to say it outright.

"Nope," Tony said softly, shaking his head. "And when Landry walked into that room—so calm I thought Ducky had gotten a new assistant—I just kept wondering if he really understood why Brian did it. And I knew he didn't. But I did. Hell, I'd thought about it myself plenty of times. But I knew Landry had no idea. Because he didn't know what it feels like to be hurt by the people who are supposed to love and protect you. To tiptoe around hoping no one will notice you even though it's been so long since someone touched you or talked to you that you begin to wonder if you're still even alive. To be terrified of being in your own home, a place where most people go to feel safe. I doubt that poor kid ever even knew what being safe felt like—at least when my father left for weeks at a time, I could sleep at night."

Gibbs listened even though he wanted to run for the door—or grab Tony by the shoulders and shake some emotion into his blank, heartbreaking words.

"I was at this summer camp once, right after my mother died," Tony continued, unaware of Gibbs' tension. "And there was this kid who cried every night that he wanted to go home. I didn't get it. But everyone was picking on him so I took him out for a walk in the woods and asked him why he wanted to go home so bad. He looked at me like I was crazy and told about how he missed his family. I should have thanked that kid. I think that was the first time I realized there was something wrong with me."

"Hey," Gibbs barked, unable to take it anymore. "There is nothing wrong with you, Tony. What he did to you was not your fault."

Gibbs wasn't sure what he was expecting—but it wasn't for Tony to laugh.

Amused green eyes turned to him. "How very 'Good Will Hunting' of you, Boss," he said with a tired grin. "Now you're supposed to make a joke about me grabbing your ass."

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow, finally getting one of Tony's movie references—and wishing he hadn't. He found himself wishing Tony would break down and cry, because the thought of his senior field agent sobbing in his arms was still less frightening than this man who could laugh and joke about the horror that had passed for his childhood. Gibbs, needing to think about something else—anything else, ran back through Tony's words, calm and detached as his case reports.

"You've done it before," Gibbs said, sitting up straighter and frowning at his agent.

That seemed to snap Tony out of whatever drugged, pained, sleepiness-induced fog he had been floating in. "Beaten a child abuser and then had said child abuser kill himself in an attempt to frame me for his death? Uh, no. This is brand-new territory for me, Gibbs." He smiled again, the expression unnerving. "I think I'd be handling it better if I had some experience to draw on."

"Not what I meant," Gibbs said, his eyes on the sling on Tony's injured arm.

The shutters came crashing down, and Tony sat up straight. "I'm tired, Boss," he said, the words clipped in a way Gibbs hadn't heard in a long while. "I'm going—"

"To run away?"

Tony paused, then nodded once. "Yep."

Gibbs knew he should probably just let it go. But then he thought of all the times people in Brian's life had just let it go. He knew Tony was no longer a kid trapped in a house with his abusive father, but judging by the shadows lurking in those tired green eyes, Gibbs wondered if he had really completely made it out—if anyone in that situation ever could.

"Tell me about it," he said, expecting an explosion.

But all Tony did was sigh and ask, "Why?"

Gibbs didn't answer directly because he wasn't exactly sure of the reasons himself. "Have you ever told anyone about it? About any of it?"

"Is this where you tell me getting it out is the first step in healing?" Tony asked, his tone sarcastic but not antagonistic. He mostly just sounded exhausted, but he leveled a steady glare at his boss. "You think I'm broken, Gibbs?"

Gibbs didn't even blink. "I think you've been hurt badly enough—and often enough—that you should be." He shook his head. "Or a lot of people would be. If you'd ever let yourself face it instead of hiding it away and ignoring it."

Gibbs wondered how Tony could glare so fiercely when it looked like he'd fall over if he tried to stand up.

"I've told Abby some things," Tony said defensively.

And Gibbs thought again about backing off. But he didn't. Because he was Gibbs, after all.

"Yeah," he said, not really agreeing. "And I bet your version would make 'Black Hawk Down' look like 'Stripes'."

"Nice reference," Tony said, smiling faintly and settling back into the soft cushions. "You know the documentary about making 'Black Hawk Down' on the DVD is actually longer than the movie? It's only a few minutes, but—"

Gibbs just gave him a look.

Tony sighed again. "She didn't need to hear the details, Boss. There was no way I was going to put all that shit in her head. She can handle the most gruesome crime scenes without blinking, but I doubt she would have slept for a week if I told her even half of what he did to me."

"I can handle it," Gibbs said simply.

When Tony didn't speak—out of shock or fear or exhaustion—Gibbs continued, "You don't want to put it in her head so why keep it locked up in yours?"

Tony didn't answer, his eyes still closed, his breathing so slow and even that Gibbs wondered if he had fallen asleep—or passed out.

"You can't tell me it doesn't feel better getting it out."

And that brought Tony bolt upright, the hand over his broken rib his only sign that anything was bothering him, physically or emotionally. He stared at Gibbs. "Why do you want to hear that shit anyway? What is this? Payback for using all this crap to distract you all weekend? You want me to tell you more so you can judge whether I was lying?"

Tony felt like his head was about to explode. But Gibbs just waited patiently while he calmed down. Finally, after a wait long enough to rival Gibbs' record in interrogation, he spoke.

"I don't really care why you told me what you did," Gibbs said, the kind, concerned expression obliterating all thoughts of the interrogation room, "long as you got it out."

They were quiet for a long moment, Tony feeling as raw and exposed as he had all weekend.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked softly.

"No," came the immediate reply. His stomach twisting guiltily for a multitude of reasons, Tony continued. "Even if you believe me, even if you understand why I went there," he said, silently noting the difference between understanding and offering forgiveness, "I still don't understand why you don't hate me."

Gibbs blinked at the strong word, the phrasing. "What could I possibly hate you for?" he asked, suddenly wanting to find Tony's father and hurt him—make him suffer as much as the young man sitting beside him had, _still was._

"Gibbs, I called you a murderer," he said, his eyes tormented.

"You were right," Gibbs said, cracking a smile. "Just off by a decade or so."

And suddenly, Gibbs' rare levity—and probably the painkillers and exhaustion—made Tony smile back.

He shook his head. "This isn't really funny."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "You mean me thinking you were a killer and you thinking I was?"

Tony's smile got wider. "Well, when you put it that way…" The smile faded. "I am sorry, Boss. I never should have lied to you."

"Nope," Gibbs agreed simply.

Tony looked up from the floor. "And I'll take whatever disciplinary—"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said mildly. "No punishment I could come up with would even compare to what you've already put yourself through. Just don't do it again."

"I won't," Tony said sincerely. _I might never have the chance_, he thought, pushing away thoughts of that photograph. He turned. "And Boss?"

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Not tonight, okay?" he said, frowning and looking seriously uncomfortable. "Maybe I can tell you about … it … some other time. But just not tonight?"

Gibbs stood and held out a hand. "Only thing you need to do tonight is sleep."

Tony took the offered help and stood shakily, a hint of red on his cheeks as Gibbs waited patiently while he steadied himself—and more than a hint when Gibbs put his arm around him and matched his slow, weaving gait.

"It's okay," Gibbs said, sensing an apology. "I'm sure you'll feel a lot better in the morning."

Tony's smile was reflexive—the curling of an armadillo sensing danger.

_I bet you'd be pissed, Boss, if you had any idea just how wrong you are. _


	27. Chapter 27

Gibbs wandered back into the kitchen, glanced at the clock on the microwave glowing 3:17 a.m. and thought about going into the guest room and trying to sleep—but he knew that was going to be impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Tony dislocating that shoulder, pictured his confusion at why his boss would be so upset about that. Gibbs thought he had gotten through in their conversation tonight—but he also knew how good Tony was at deception.

That thought made him wonder if he should be angry—Tony had done a lot of deceiving lately. And yet Gibbs couldn't make himself find that anger. He really did understand—not to mention that being pissed would make him a hypocrite, considering his own actions of the past.

But what really was bothering Gibbs—aside from the mental state of his agent—was that he didn't understand why this particular case had led Tony to seek vengeance. Unfortunately, they had dealt with several child abuse cases since DiNozzo had joined the team. The obvious answer what that none of the previous victims had taken their own lives, but Gibbs' gut refused to believe that was all of the answer.

So he moved through the quiet, dark apartment, finally settling onto Tony's soft black leather couch and stretching out along the ample length of it. He glanced at the TV and flipped it on, belatedly realizing that there would be no ball games on at this odd hour. He left it on the station it automatically went to—the weather channel, curiously—and he muted the sound, not wanting to listen to the chatter. He crossed his arms under his head and stared up at the flickering lights on the ceiling, wishing he had his boat to grind out some of his tension.

Or his bourbon.

He got up, wondering if Tony ever fell asleep out here and how he managed to pry himself from the comforting softness to force himself to work, not knowing what fresh horrors the job would bring. Gibbs knew it was partly why he often slept under his boat or on his ratty old couch: It was easier to pull himself up from boards or off overused springs than to willingly leave a warm bed to go off and face death and destruction.

Gibbs poked through cabinets, feeling only slightly invasive considering his mass raiding to assemble the stew earlier, and he found Tony's liquor stash. He studied the scotch and the Irish whiskey, deciding on the Jameson. He poured with his usual heavy hand and held the amber liquid up to the light.

It would do.

He added a few ice cubes to the rocks glass to remind his tongue not to expect the warm, oaky tones of the Rare Breed he kept on the top shelf next to the paint stripper.

_"What's the difference?"_ Shannon asked with wide-eyed mock innocence from somewhere deep in his memory.

"One takes longer to kill ya," he echoed softly.

And then he almost dropped his drink.

_"Hell, I'd thought about it myself plenty of times_."

This time it was Tony's voice whispering to him from the past—the much more recent past. But Gibbs pushed aside the thought—and the urge to go check on Tony and make sure he was still breathing—because while he could imagine a hopeless young Tony poking at bruises and fighting feelings of worthlessness, he knew DiNozzo would never kill himself.

_But he has no problems hurting himself. _

Gibbs turned his eyes to the TV again, watching the muted special on tornadoes and feeling kindred to their chaotic swirling.

His mind was doing the same.

Especially considering that smile that Tony had given him after being assured things would be better in the morning. Gibbs wanted to chalk its oddity up to pain and exhaustion, but he knew those factors had stripped Tony of his usual defenses, leaving his face completely readable for once.

Gibbs had no doubt.

Tony was scared.

But of what, Gibbs didn't have the slightest clue.

* * *

Gibbs came awake slowly, all senses on alert but his breathing unchanged. He lay in the semi-darkness, the muted TV silently telling him that it was 4:49 a.m. and that it was going to be sunny and pleasant today.

At least outside.

Gibbs' eyes adjusted quickly and saw what had awakened him—or rather, who. Tony stood near the sliding-glass balcony doors, his hand frozen on the handle.

"Should have known I couldn't sneak past you," Tony said softly.

Gibbs sat up, blinking sleepily.

"When I was first looking for a place to live here," Tony said, his voice still quiet, his back still to his boss as he stared out into the relative darkness of the somnolent city, "I almost didn't take this place because of the balcony."

Gibbs didn't ask why. He just waited.

"I didn't like the glass doors. Didn't feel safe," Tony answered. He chuckled softly, anticipating Gibbs' words before he could even speak them. "And I'm eight floors up. I know, right? But I still didn't like it."

He paused, putting his hand flat against the door, wincing at either the chill of the glass on this early fall morning or one of his many injuries.

"But now I can't imagine not having it," he continued. He stepped back from the glass and perched on the edge of the overstuffed chair near the doors, still facing the night sky—and still far enough away and hidden in the shadows to talk freely. Gibbs didn't miss that Tony's monologue paused at the same times that the TV's flickering lit his face, the lightning strikes on the show long-since filmed but still filling the air in the room with charged tension.

Only when the show went to commercial did Tony begin speaking again, his tone calm once more in the darkness.

"I go out there to think, and it's nice because I feel so removed. It's just me and the fresh air," he said. The frown suddenly marring his handsome features looked pained. "And the memories," he finished, pulling his injured arm close to his body. "And up here—out there—it feels more like it all happened to someone else. Like it's something I read in a case file a long time ago. And sometimes I wonder if I imagined it all—dreamed it, maybe. Maybe I look at myself in the mirror and don't always like the person I see staring back. So maybe I made it all up to give myself an excuse—a reason—for all my flaws."

Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, knowing he probably was going to erupt into shouting and not particularly caring who he woke up at this late-ish early hour.

But Tony spoke first. "But I know it really did happen," he said, not turning back to Gibbs, who could feel his eyes on him even though it was only his reflection. "I have all the scars to prove it."

Gibbs felt his anger melt away, drifting like the fade to black at the end of the weather channel show on the once-flickering screen. The anger was gone, but sadness filled the void and Gibbs' pain was almost physical as he stared at Tony's profile, his agent's face blank as a newborn's memory.

He only wished Tony's memory could be so clean.

Tony held up his left hand, waiting for the right flash of light from the screen—a brilliant strike of lightning that had probably lit the darkest corners of the world, if only for a moment—and pointed out a scar on the underside of his forefinger. "He forgot my birthday, right after my mother died," Tony said, unable to meet even Gibbs' reflection's eyes.

Had he been looking, he would have seen those blue eyes go wide.

Maybe he did.

Because Tony shook his head slowly. "He didn't hit me that night," he said, unnerving Gibbs with the apparent mind-reading. "I broke it myself. Slammed my hand in the door of one of his precious, expensive cars that he never forgot to take to the garage to get the oil changed or the tires rotated. I broke half the bones in my hand, hoping he would see it and remember that I was hurting, too. That I missed her—that I lost her, too."

Gibbs raised his eyes from the hands knotted in his lap to study Tony's face, looking for evidence of his anguish but finding nothing. His green eyes were as calm as his voice—as calm as the puffy clouds on the tornado show had been right before all hell broke loose. Gibbs, usually not one to notice his agent's eye colors, couldn't help comparing Tony's green ones to the eerie shade that had lit the pre-storm skies. He wondered if Tony's father had looked into those eyes, seen his pain, and finally come to his senses.

But Tony was calm, answering the unspoken question. "No, he didn't. He didn't pick me up and tell me everything was going to be fine. He didn't jump out with a surprise cake and a funny hat. He didn't tell me he understood that I missed her because he missed her, too." He smiled, sadly at least—or Gibbs might have lost it. "I spent that night under her piano. Well, trying to play, too—right-handed scales to take my mind off the pain. But then I just curled up underneath because I kept messing up and I was afraid of getting blood on the keys."

Gibbs' silver head came up at that, disbelief in his eyes.

"Yeah," Tony confirmed, nodding. "He told me he'd take me to the hospital in the morning and that I should spend the night learning my lesson about 'doing this shit again'."

Gibbs couldn't imagine making a child with a serious injury suffer like that, for that long, and his stomach began churning sickly, rumbling like the muted thunder on the television set.

"If the doctors or nurses noticed that the blood had already started to crust over the open break," Tony said, sounding disinterested, "no one said anything. DiNozzo was not a name to be questioned back then, not in New York. If Anthony DiNozzo said his son accidentally shut his hand in the car door a half-hour ago, then that's what happened."

The soft chuckle had Gibbs' blood pressure inching ever higher.

"I guess I should thank him for making me into such a good little liar," Tony said, starting slightly at Gibbs' faint growl. "It's a good skill to have... But the hospital was really the worst part—and not because of the realigning of bones or the stitches. It was because as soon as someone was watching, he would turn into someone else—into the father I always wanted. He let me sit on his lap and he put his arms around me and didn't yell at me for crying on him."

The faint glimmer of warmth clouded over into shadow, and Tony continued, his tone as dark as the room. "I made the mistake of asking for neon green casting tape while no one was in the room with us. I guess I got lulled into false security with his act. He always did put on a good show," he said, shaking his head slowly in a whisper of movement. "He brought me back to reality with a backhand to the face and a threat against being childish."

Gibbs closed his eyes-but opened them quickly, seeing images of a scared little boy moving a trembling hand from broken bones to a stinging cheek. He turned his eyes to the darkness beyond the glass and wondered how the fates could allow a man with a soul as black as the night to have children—to _hurt_ children.

"One of the nurses was actually brave enough-or naive enough-to mention it," Tony continued, unaware of Gibbs' rising nausea. "She asked why my cheeks were so red, and he answered, 'Because he's been crying all morning'." Tony heaved a gusty sigh that ended with a half-smile. "Not only did he have an answer for everything, but he also managed to get that little dig in. I might have been impressed if I hadn't been trying not to puke all over his designer shirt."

"But so did I," Tony continued. He clarified, "I had an answer for everything, too. 'Why not take your shirt off at the pool?' Because I don't want to get sunburned. 'Why are you limping?' Because I twisted an ankle at football practice. I said he never hit my face, but I should have said he was careful not to-unless he was rip-roaring drunk. All bets were off then. I could even try to run because sometimes he would forget about me and pass out. But if he caught me, even if I struggled, he'd just hit whatever part of me he could get his hands on. Or his fists. I lost my two front teeth a little sooner than most kids-and to a bottle of Glenlivet and a punch in the mouth."

Gibbs felt the rage crash through his body, swift and violent as an earthquake-which was fitting because he was shaking like a fault line just trying to control the fury.

"The teeth would have been easy enough to explain," Tony said, the vague wariness in his eyes letting Gibbs know he needed to do a better job of calming down.

The implications of Tony's veiled fear—_of him—_shocked Gibbs into stillness and he fought the lingering urge to vomit.

"But the split lip and broken nose took a little more creativity," Tony continued. "But I learned from the best. I blamed it on rough-housing with a made-up cousin. I told everyone his name was Vinny and his dad was a mobster so they shouldn't ask too many questions."

Tony realized his soft smile was completely at odds with Gibbs' quivering rage, and his breath caught, sending stabbing pain through his broken rib-and he realized it wasn't the only thing that hurt. The memories were suddenly fresh enough for him to smell his own blood, to taste his own fear. He tried to take a deep breath and found it hard to force the air through a suddenly constricted throat.

"Maybe there is something to be said about getting it out," he managed, "but why does it have to hurt so much?"

Gibbs didn't have an answer for him-but he was glad that Tony was showing some sort of emotion, even if it was pain. Gibbs knew better than most what keeping the anguish locked up would do to a person. He had seen it professionally, in what it could lead a person to do, and he had seen it personally, nearly drowning in the tidal waves of his own pain.

"I won't apologize," Tony said, looking slightly sheepish. "Because you'll just get mad again-at me this time," he added, to Gibbs' immense relief. "But I hope it wasn't too much. You know, more than you bargained for? Because to me, it wasn't surprising that he sent me to bed that night I broke my hand without dinner. But I know it's not normal-and not easy to hear. That's why I told everyone he took me for pizza that night."

Gibbs swallowed hard, aching for him right then, and he cursed his inability to express some sort of comfort.

Tony misinterpreted the silence and said nervously, stiffly, "I hope I didn't take advantage of your offer, Gibbs." He got up, wincing at pains both physical and otherwise, and turned for the hallway.

"Tony?" Gibbs said softly, speaking for the first time since waking to Tony's shadow falling softly across his face. Tony turned back and Gibbs looked away, feeling embarrassed and uncertain, his eyes catching the TV showing the forecast over a calm ocean tide rolling in. Then he looked back up and said firmly, "I would have taken you for pizza."

Tears appeared and then vanished like spectral visions, leaving Gibbs wondering if they had even been there. Tony glanced down at his sling and then at the empty pizza box ready to go out with the trash.

"You did one better, Boss," he said, smiling. "You had it delivered."

* * *

**A/N: **For the talented and all-around fabulous Detour, without whom this scene would not exist.

**A/N2: ** Today is Veterans Day in the U.S. I'd like to thank all of our men and women in uniform, past and present—wherever on this planet you are. Considering your sacrifices for our safety and freedom, a simple "thank you" never quite seems enough...


	28. Chapter 28

Tony woke up, expecting to see sunlight streaming through the windows.

But all he saw was darkness beyond the panes.

He blinked slowly, feeling groggy and sick, and looked at the clock to find that it was quarter after six and he had been asleep for only about twenty minutes. That explained the grogginess, but not the sickness. He moved his right arm slightly, not surprised that his shoulder didn't hurt at all because this was not the nausea that came with severe pain. That was a feeling he knew by heart.

He sat up, his free hand going immediately to his belly, and he eyed the distance to the connecting bathroom. He figured he could make it without heaving on the floor, but his calculations were based more on drinking-induced vomiting than that related to mystery illnesses.

Ignoring the slimy feeling at the back of his throat, he swung his feet to the floor and stood, intending on making a run for it.

He made about three steps before swaying, his knees giving out and sending him crashing to the floor.

The urge to puke his guts out was momentarily overshadowed by the suddenly returned pain in his shoulder, and he simply lay there, half-curled and trying to slow his breathing. He heard footsteps, a softly muttered "Crap" from the doorway, and remembered that Gibbs was still there.

_Making sure I don't bolt before they come to arrest me? _

The thoughts vanished as he felt a gentle hand settle on his side, low enough to avoid his damaged rib.

"Easy," Gibbs said, that hand moving carefully up to Tony's shoulder, his touch whisper-soft as he made sure everything was where it should be before moving back down to his side, apparently satisfied.

Tony felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he knew he should be feeling grateful that he hadn't fallen on his bad side—he figured he would have shrieked like a girl had he landed on the broken bone and/or popped his shoulder out again.

"Gonna guess you're not examining that mystery stain," Gibbs said, nodding at the reddish discoloration on the light carpeting a few inches from Tony's face. He leaned down a bit, careful not to put any pressure where his hand still rested on Tony's injured side. "That blood?"

"Yep," Tony said, glad Gibbs was distracting him from both his embarrassment and the nausea. He sensed the question and said, "From the Atlas case."

Gibbs was silent for a moment, but then he said, "Didn't realize the wounds were that deep."

Despite his tiredness and the nausea still squeezing his stomach, Tony heard the apology in those words. "Me neither," he said dismissively. "I didn't even notice it until the next morning. Left it as a reminder of where being careless will get me."

Tony winced, wondering why he had said that last part out loud and hating how stupid it sounded. He waited for Gibbs to tell him that hadn't been his fault—_ha, right—_or for his boss to laugh at him.

But all Gibbs said was, "Hell of a reminder, DiNozzo."

Tony closed his eyes as the nausea returned, tickling the back of his throat and making his stomach ache.

"You gonna puke on me?" Gibbs asked mildly.

But Tony didn't speak because he was trying too hard not to answer in Technicolor. He was grateful that Gibbs seemed to understand—and for the hand that hadn't left his side. It was the only thing keeping him grounded through the dizziness that gripped him as he lay in the suddenly spinning room.

They stayed that way for several long moments, Tony almost hoping Gibbs would shoot him and put him out of his misery.

"Easy," Gibbs said again, standing and mercifully ignoring Tony's hitched breath as the comforting hand left his side. "Stay put."

"Not going anywhere," Tony mumbled, his cheek still resting on the carpet. He closed his eyes, blocking out the bloodstain—and the memories of how he had come home that night to an empty apartment and sat numbly on the floor. _You mean "collapsed,"_ he thought. He breathed deeply, trying to forget the exhaustion, the nausea from the drug lingering in his system, the stinging of the multiple scrapes on his back and arms. And Gibbs' steady hands on him, telling him he was irreplaceable—and the completely contradictory slap in the face of seeing McGee at his desk and hearing Gibbs tell his replacement that the slot wasn't quite open yet.

Gibbs was back then, and Tony shoved the thoughts back into their little box, determined to keep the lid safely on them. A towel appeared in front of Tony's face and he shook his head.

"I'm okay," he said, weakly trying to push himself up.

A firm hand landed on his back and he gave up, wondering why he felt more tired than before going to bed. "Just puke, DiNozzo," Gibbs commanded. "You'll feel better if you stop fighting it."

Tony knew he was right, but still he struggled and said, "Not here." It was bad enough that Gibbs thought he had to take care of him, but there was no way Tony was going to let him clean up his mess, too.

"Fine," Gibbs said with a sigh. He helped Tony up and into the bathroom, just in time.

Tony threw up, unable to help his quiet pants of "ow, ow" as each spasm sent pain stabbing through his side. Gibbs didn't touch him until he was done, for which he was glad. He was embarrassed enough. Tony settled back against the wall and found Gibbs studying him intently. The scrutiny was a bit unsettling, mostly because Tony didn't understand the look on his boss's face. If he didn't know better, he'd say Gibbs looked guilty.

"Probably shouldn't have made you eat," Gibbs said.

Tony smiled even though the thought of food made him want to start heaving again. "You were so right about the second time around," he said, looking longingly up at his toothbrush.

Gibbs seemed to read his mind, helping him to his feet again and leaving to give him some privacy—but only after making sure he was going to stay upright.

Tony opened the door a few minutes later, sagging against the doorframe and feeling distinctly like a kid trying to stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep: There was the photo, and…

"Here."

Gibbs put pills and a glass of water into his hands, and Tony downed them gratefully, barely noticing when the glass almost slipped from his fingers.

He felt an arm go around his waist and he melted against his boss, too tired to be embarrassed. His sleepy eyes landed on the bloodstain and he was suddenly glad for it—glad to remember how Gibbs had hurt him with his joke that night. It would be easier this way, and if he had the strength to shove away from Gibbs' comforting, supportive hold on him, he would have. Because it was just going to hurt more when he no longer had his team, whether the photo surfaced and he was arrested or he simply decided it was too much and had to walk away.

Again.

It was time. Even if by some miracle he found himself off the hook for Landry, Tony knew he couldn't stay. He had become too comfortable—he had spilled his secrets to Gibbs, of all people. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle the looks of pity—or the guilt he felt at having used them all in his quest to show Landry that there were consequences to his despicable actions. He had to leave. It was past time.

"Easy," Gibbs said, feeling Tony's shaking and carefully tightening his grip. "You're okay."

Tony didn't protest as Gibbs helped him into bed. He couldn't have even if he tried, thanks to the exhaustion pulling him under again. Just before he slipped back into sleep, he thought he felt a hand brush his cheek.

"Just sleep," Gibbs said, sounding far, far away. "Don't worry about the photo."

Tony tried to force his eyes open at that but couldn't. _You know about the photo?_ he screamed from somewhere deep inside the fog enveloping his brain, the lead encasing his body. He suddenly recognized the feelings.

It was exactly how he had felt outside that bar on the Atlas case.

And again, he could do nothing but sink.

"Sleep, Tony," he heard Gibbs say. "It'll all be over soon."


	29. Chapter 29

Tony awoke to more darkness beyond the glass of his bedroom windows.

But there was no nausea this time, no lingering exhaustion.

In fact, he felt better than he had in a while—except for the pain knifing him in the shoulder and side with each inhalation.

He looked at the clock, glowing 7:42, and realized he felt better because he had slept through the day and worse because he had missed a dose of painkillers… or two. He lay there for a moment, not looking forward to forcing himself upright, and he realized there was a pillow tucked under his right elbow that he didn't remember putting there. Not that it was something he would have done. It was the gesture of someone who cared about him and didn't want him to wake up hurting.

Gibbs.

And suddenly, the morning came rushing back at him, both his mystery illness and Gibbs' soft, faraway words. _He knows,_ Tony thought wildly, shoving the pillow away and feeling increasingly confused. _He knows about the photo, and—_

Tony sat up too quickly and ended up huddling into himself on the edge of the bed, just trying to breathe through the pain. He wanted to scream, but it wasn't entirely from the burning of either of his injuries.

"Here."

Tony's head jerked up and he just stared at his boss, who had suddenly appeared beside him and was holding more pills out to him.

"Just painkillers this time," Gibbs said, obviously reading the wariness in his agent's eyes.

Tony blinked and frowned hard. "You drugged me?"

"Yep," Gibbs said, taking Tony by the wrist and dropping the pills into his palm. "Take these. Then we'll talk."

But Tony just stared.

Gibbs gave him a look. "Don't even try to tell me it doesn't hurt."

"Hurts like hell," Tony whispered, not sure if he was referring only to the physical damage. He swallowed the pills, his eyes snapping to the door as he heard a noise from down the hall. He turned to his boss, feeling hurt and beyond betrayed. "Gibbs…?"

Blue eyes closed, stealing Tony's breath. But Gibbs just sighed. "You honestly think I slipped you something so I could call the cops to come pick you up?"

Tony didn't speak.

"It's the team," Gibbs said, making Tony look more confused. "We need to talk."

_No shit_, Tony thought, fighting irrational giggles. He tried to calm his breathing, to will the pain away.

All of it.

"But not right now," Gibbs was saying. "You need to get the pain under control first."

Tony couldn't help it. He laughed shakily. "I'm just supposed to lie here until it doesn't hurt anymore?" His smile died. "Gonna be a long fucking time, Boss."

Gibbs ignored the epithet. "Calm down, Tony," he said, calmly.

"You want me to—"

"Hey," Gibbs said, turning to look his agent in the eyes. "No one's arresting anyone. We need to talk to you, and you're in no condition to be dragged down to the Navy Yard to do it."

Tony put a hand on his belly. "Not entirely my fault," he said quietly.

Gibbs winced. "Ducky said I probably didn't get you to eat enough before I dosed you," he said, drawing an incredulous look from Tony. "I'm sorry about that," Gibbs said sincerely, ignoring Tony's shock. "Didn't mean to make you feel worse. You were just supposed to sleep while we took care of a few things."

Tony stood abruptly, shrugging off Gibbs' steadying hand. "Gibbs, please," he said, locking eyes with his boss. "Please."

Gibbs studied his agent's pale face for a moment and decided Tony could handle what was coming.

At least physically.

He nodded, trying not to sigh when Tony shrugged off the supportive hand under his elbow. They went into the living room, where the team, plus Ducky and Abby, were waiting, all seated or perched on various furniture—except the big overstuffed chair near the balcony doors.

Tony glanced at it and went willingly, dropping into it and turning on a bright smile. "Is this an intervention? 'Cause I'm not a drunk," he said, his grin falling flat as he glared at Gibbs and put a hand on his churning stomach. "Though I kinda feel like I've got this massive hangover going on."

"Ah," Ducky said, the tips of his ears turning red. "That was not our intention, Anthony. I am sorry for your reaction this morning." He paused, looking Tony in the eyes. "And for drugging you in the first place. But we felt it necessary, to give us time to get our ducks in a row, so to speak."

Tony just stared at the doctor, settled on the end of his couch with a cup of tea. Tony glanced around at Kate and McGee and Abby and realized they all had cups nearby.

"This is the craziness damned tea party…" he mumbled. He looked straight at Gibbs. "What 'ducks'?"

"We spent the day teleconferencing with Landry's next of kin. A cousin in California," Gibbs said.

"Presenting him the evidence," Abby offered with a brevity that had Tony even more unsettled.

"He was having a little trouble believing Landry would have killed himself," Kate said. "He asked if anything about the death was suspicious. If someone could have killed him. But we told him the evidence doesn't support that."

"And we don't believe that's what happened," Abby said, moving to Tony's side and crouching at his knee. She took his hand in hers. "Because we know you didn't kill him."

"Abigail and I confirmed that the prints on the knife and the angle of the blade's penetration suggest suicide," Ducky said, his kind eyes patiently taking in Tony's distressed state.

"I scanned the diary and the cousin is reading it now," McGee said.

But Tony barely heard him. All he could think about was that photo.

"We explained how he slammed his face into the wall," Abby said, her hand on Tony's knee. "How he wiped the blood to make it look like someone attacked him."

"I wasn't going to," Ducky said, "but he asked for the autopsy photos showing the vertical bruising. So I sent him the photos that explain everything."

Tony stopped breathing, looking around the room and wondering if they had all gone insane. If this was some sick joke. "And how exactly did you explain how he kicked himself in the back with a boot he doesn't even own?"

He expected shock.

He didn't get it.

"What boot?" Ducky asked, meeting his eyes steadily.

"Abby identified the tread pattern. Ducky, I saw the photo…" Tony trailed off, realizing what the doctor had done for him. And why Gibbs had drugged him. They all knew he never would have agreed to let them destroy evidence.

Ducky was smiling softly. "You're starting to understand, aren't you?" He reached out and patted Tony's suddenly shaking hand. "And I don't mean how that photo disappeared or how the body has already been picked up for cremation by now—his ashes to be sent to his cousin. You're starting to realize how much we care for you, my lad. And perhaps even more than that, how much we _believe _in you, Anthony. I destroyed that photo for the same reason Abigail wiped that ring: We care about you, we want to protect you, and we know you. We all know you're not capable of cold-blooded murder, and there is no way we would ever see you sent to prison for something we know you did not do."

But Tony still wasn't finished asking questions. He was, after all, just getting used to being part of a family. "But didn't you have to explain that Landry was setting me up to explain everything else? Doesn't that in itself make me a prime suspect?"

"No one knows you were there Saturday night," Gibbs said, lifting a shoulder. "And you did manage to piss off Landry on Friday. It's all in the incident report you filed after I hurt you."

"But I never…" Tony said, shaking his head.

Gibbs just gave him a look and flopped a file down on the coffee table. "That's your signature."

Tony glanced down and then back up at him with a wary half-smile, unable to believe he still knew how to form the expression. "Should I start checking my credit card statements more carefully, Boss?"

"Don't ask me," he said, flicking a glance across the room.

Tony followed his eyes to find Abby smiling mischievously.

"What?" she said, an innocent grin curving her black lips. "I am—among my many, many talents—also a handwriting analyst. And if I might have picked up a few skills along the way that no one knows about…" She shrugged. "The point is, we explained that Landry probably saw suicide as an admission of his guilt over Brian, so he decided to fake his murder. If we were to try to guess who he wanted to go down for that murder, I suppose you might be a candidate—among everyone else who had ever 'wronged' him in his life. People like that are always trying to blame someone else for their problems. It could have been anyone."

"But," Kate said, "even guessing would be pure speculation. There's no way of knowing who he might have been trying to frame—or if he even had one specific person in mind."

"And as I told his cousin, there's no physical evidence," Abby said. "Except Landry's own palm print on the knife."

Tony frowned, trying to think through the fog in his head that had nothing to do with drugs. "But I still could have—"

"You forgetting I _finished _dislocating your shoulder on Friday night?" Gibbs asked, his blue eyes steady, even though he was still having trouble dealing with Tony hurting himself so deliberately.

"As your attending physician," Ducky said, "I can vouch for the fact that there is no way you could have overpowered and killed a Marine with only one good arm."

"And," Abby said, "you're alibied for the entire weekend."

"Not exactly the entire—"

"Yes, Tony," Abby said. "The entire weekend. When you weren't with Gibbs, you were with me."

"Abby, I can't ask you to lie—"

"And when you weren't with me, you were with Julia," she said. "That was smart, DiNozzo. And thank you for giving me an out—not that I would have taken it. You're a good person, Tony."

Kate nodded. "And I can say, as a profiler, that you really are, Tony. You were pissed as hell at Landry for what he did to Brian. But you still kept an open mind about my PTSD theory. That's not the mark of a vengeful killer, Tony. Any profiler worth her salt could tell you that."

McGee finally spoke up. "And don't forget the alarm, Tony," he said without hesitation. "The alarm was never tripped, and I was the only one Landry gave the code to."

Tony looked around the room, at the faces of these people who were all willing to step out on a limb to protect him. And he couldn't quite figure out why they would do that, why they would take that risk, for him.

But he was starting to.

"Thanks, everyone," he said, feeling like those words were hopelessly inadequate to express the depth of his gratitude. "I really don't know what to say," he said honestly.

"That you'll keep letting us in," Kate said. "That you'll tell us if you're thinking about doing something crazy." She shot a mock-glare at Abby. "Even if it's just getting a tat on your bum."

Tony smiled and nodded, feeling like everything just might be okay.

And then Gibbs' phone rang.

And Tony felt the tension grab him by the throat again.

"Yes, Director," Gibbs said, his eyes on Tony's bloodless face as he listened to the man on the line. "Yeah. Got it," he said, flipping the phone shut.

"Gibbs…?" Tony asked, the snap of the phone hitting him like a gunshot.

"Director just spoke with Landry's cousin," Gibbs said, still watching Tony carefully. "He was still having doubts—until he read that last diary entry. 'Guess there was always something a little off about Kenny,' the director quoted him."

The tension fled Tony's body, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion. "So it's over?" he managed, wanting to curl up and sleep for days—but unwilling to kick his friends out to do it.

"Officially," Gibbs said, his eyes moving from Tony to Abby. He saw both of them brace for the onslaught, but all he said was, "Either of you ever risk your damned careers over a piece of scum like that again, and I'll shoot you both."

Abby blinked at the threat, but she knew that it was born of a deep concern for both of them. She grinned, only slightly uneasily. "Uh, Gibbs. Technically I risked mine for Tony. And he's not piece of scum."

Tony found himself suddenly tense again, his insecurities springing up despite what everyone had done for him. It was a sad truth that a few acts of kindness—even of this magnitude—couldn't erase a lifetime of pain and abuse. He looked at Gibbs, waiting for him to disagree.

But Gibbs just nodded at Abby. "Got that right."

Tony smiled. Okay, so he couldn't erase his painful past.

But he could start looking forward.

Ducky reached out and patted Tony's knee. "So, my boy," he said, smiling and tightening his grip. "About that surgery…"


	30. Chapter 30

Both Gibbs and Abby stayed with Tony the night before his surgery, and the agent was pretty sure it had more to do with keeping him from bolting than anything else.

There was an awkward moment when Tony headed for bed—and Abby followed right behind. He turned, put his free hand on her shoulder and tossed a pointed look at Gibbs, who was slouched in the big comfortable chair and contemplating furniture shopping again.

"What?" Abby asked, smiling brightly. "He knows I sleep with you—and not 'with you', with you. Besides, he's not our dad. _That_ would be truly creepy, you know, because it would make us brother and sister. Or at least halfsies. Now come on. Don't make me sleep in the guest room. It's not nice to leave Gibbs on the couch and you know I don't sleep well in strange places."

He smiled at her. "Abby. You sleep in a coffin."

"Exactly," she said, waving a goodnight to Gibbs and practically shoving Tony into the bedroom. She walked him to the bed and then turned, undoing her chunky black belt and watching him cover his eyes theatrically. She rolled hers. "Like I have _anything _you haven't seen before."

He peeked through his fingers. "Is that a new tat?"

She threw a boot at him, and then squeaked, "Ohmigod are you okay did I hurt you?"

"Didn't even touch me," he said with a grin. "You throw like a girl."

She made a face. "I am a girl."

"Kate would disagree," he teased.

"Woman," Abby corrected. "She said to tell you good luck, by the way. And Timmy said to call if you needed anything. But you won't. Because I'll be here taking care of you while you're all bombed out on the good drugs. You are not lifting a finger until I say so. Got it?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna go all mother hen on me, Abbs?"

She grinned. "It was me or Gibbs."

"I love you, Abby," he said sincerely. "Have I ever told you that?"

She nodded. "But not nearly enough." The grin got wider. "Stop picturing me in a nurse's outfit."

He laughed and waggled his eyebrows at her. "I was thinking more dominatrix. You know, cracking the whip to keep me from overexerting myself."

Abby rolled her eyes. "That is _not_ what the whip is for." And then a blush rose across her pale cheeks. "Not that I know anything about that. Now lie down. You need to rest."

"I'm afraid to say no," he joked, pantomiming cracking a whip.

But her smile was soft. "You don't ever have to be afraid of me." She saw the look and stopped him with a black-tipped finger over his lips. "Don't say it. I did what I did, and I'd do it again."

"Okay," he said, feeling a little shaky inside at the intensity in her cool green eyes. "But I won't ever make you do it again."

She grinned and planted a kiss on his slightly scruffy cheek. "Even better." A frown crossed her face just as she was about to reach up and turn off the bedside lamp. "Tony? Will you do something for me?"

He thought about all she had done for him, her absolute faith in him during this whole mess. "Anything, Abby."

"Forget that Julia's number, would you?" She was still grinning when she flicked off the light and settled down against his side. "That girl was a total skank."

* * *

Gibbs found Tony sitting at his kitchen table at 0430, tracing the wood grain with a finger.

"Hey," Gibbs said, taking a seat.

"Hey," Tony said back, not looking up at his boss.

They were silent a moment, both watching Tony's finger make loops around a gnarl in the wood.

"Nervous?" Gibbs asked finally.

Tony looked up with a smile. "Nope," he said. "I know I'm in good hands. I think everyone from the surgeon down to the scrub nurses are all friends of Ducky's."

Gibbs returned the smile. "He said to tell you good luck. Said he'd be by later tonight to see how you're doing."

Tony blushed slightly, remembering Abby's words about Kate and McGee and trying not to feel overwhelmed by all the well wishes.

"You don't have to check in until 0700," Gibbs said, his eyes on Tony's tired green ones. "You could go back to bed."

"Can't sleep," Tony admitted quietly. And then he kicked himself, hoping Gibbs wouldn't ask why.

"You thinking about moving on again?"

Those green eyes snapped up to Gibbs' blue ones. He smiled and shook his head. _Should've known_, he thought.

"I…" he started, only to trail off and look back down at his finger tracings on the table.

"You should stay," Gibbs said simply.

Tony's head jerked up, his eyes wide. He sighed. "No one's ever done that before," he said softly.

"What?" Gibbs asked. "Noticed you were itching to leave or asked you to stay?"

"Either."

They were silent, until Tony pressed a yawn into the back of his hand.

"Listen," Gibbs said, meeting Tony's gaze. "I'm gonna level with you, okay? I know you're scared." He ignored Tony's flinch. "And not of coming out of that operating room with less limbs than you went in with. I know you're scared because you've never opened up to anyone like this before, and now you're wondering if you can handle it."

The corner of Tony's mouth quirked upward. "Most psychics charge for stuff like this."

Gibbs rolled his eyes at him. "You're scared because I know your secrets," Gibbs said bluntly, daring Tony to argue. "But you know mine, too."

He let that hang for a moment before continuing, "You think sharing secrets makes you vulnerable or weak, but it doesn't. Not with people you trust. Gives you strength to spare because you're sharing the burden."

Tony just sat and absorbed that, waiting until his throat stopped hurting to say, "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs stood and nodded toward the hall. "Go on," he ordered, making shooing motions with his hands. "Catch an hour of rest before you go meet all of Ducky's friends."

Tony smiled and headed for the door, but he stopped and turned back, his expression serious. "I'm staying, Gibbs."

"Hell, I know that," Gibbs said, smiling. "You know we'd hunt you down and drag your ass back here if you even tried to skip out on us."

* * *

Later that morning, Tony came awake in a recovery room. He was alone, but he knew the drill: No visitors until his vitals were checked and he shrugged off the anesthesia.

He looked around, groggy and feeling the vague heaviness of masked pain in his shoulder, and he blinked to try to clear the fuzziness in his vision. He looked down to see if his right hand was as swollen as it felt and found a piece of paper tucked into his palm.

He retrieved it with his left hand, as was the obvious intention of whomever had put it there, likely one of Ducky's nurse friends. He unfolded the small sheet, immediately recognizing the handwriting as Abby's, which was distinctive on its own, but also from the tiny dots she made in her b's so that when she looped the tail of the y in her name it made a smiley face.

_Hey sleepyhead!  
__  
Tell them to come back and get me so I can  
take you home. And this is your home, Tony.  
Because home is where your family is._

Love,  
Abby

Tony smiled sleepily, feeling warm despite the chilly hospital. His eyes slipped closed thanks to the drugs coursing through his system—but then they popped right back open as he saw Abby's words on the backs of his eyelids. He looked at the note in his hand again but realized through the fog of painkillers and lingering anesthesia that different words were teasing his memory.

He knew he had seen those dots in b's somewhere recently, but he couldn't place exactly where.

Evidence maybe?

He closed his eyes again but couldn't summon a visual.

But he heard loud and clear that last entry from Landry's diary.

_"I couldn't stop. I couldn't save him. But maybe God will grant me mercy so I can be with him."_

That last entry, the one that had convinced Landry's next of kin to close the case.

A case that would have been against _him. _

Tony ignored the heaviness in his mind and aching body, and he forced his sluggish brain to call up the image of that last entry. But it didn't matter. He already knew, as concretely as if he held the diary in his shaking hands.

In each of the b's there was a single, solitary, tiny little dot.

**End**


End file.
